


Beyond

by sara_holmes



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Angst, Assassins, Canon Typical Violence, Character Death, Dragons, Epic Battles, Fake Character Death, Fantasy, Game of Thrones AU, Humor, M/M, Magic, Miscommunication, Plot, Presumed Dead, Secret Relationship, Women Being Awesome, but also some real death, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 02:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9300407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_holmes/pseuds/sara_holmes
Summary: Even though nobody knows it, Westeros is at breaking point. The power of the Starks and King's Landing is waning, Rumlow's Dreadfort grows in strength in the North and the Maximoffs across the Narrow Sea are not as far away as they seem.Featuring! Accidental Lord Commander Clint and his pet direwolf, disillusioned Kingsguard Steve, disinterested Heir-to-the-Throne Tony, a whole gang of badass ladies, mercenaries that are probably more trouble than they are worth and more cameos than you can shake a stick at.





	1. Chapter 1

**Beyond the Wall - Five years before.**

It was so cold it hurt. Every breath in like knives, even breathing through the thick scarf he had wound around his neck and pulled up over his mouth and nose. His eyelashes felt heavy, tiny flakes of ice forming on every exposed bit of his face and clinging on like they were determined to sap all the warmth from his skin. He longed for his chambers in Castle Black, with the fireplace and the thick blankets piled up on his low bed. Even more he longed for life south of the wall, where the sun still shone and he didn’t spend every waking moment chilled to the bone and deeper.

“This is ridiculous,” a muffled voice called out from behind him, sounding annoyed. Clint, of course. Bucky smiled behind the cover of his scarf; he had money riding on Clint being the first to complain. That would be two Silver Stags that Thor owed him now, not that he would ever be able to spend them on anything. “Coulson, there’s nothing out here.”

“That’s Lord Commander Coulson to you,” another voice replied, sounding as carefully even as ever. Their footsteps crunched on the broken ground, turning muffled where the snow banked up on the trail. 

“Alright, Lord Commander Coulson,” Clint continued. “There is nothing out here. Loki is talking shit. The Wall is a thousand feet high. There is no way that anything has come over here just to eat a few farmers. My history isn’t great, but I’m sure the cursed thing was built so we didn’t have to do things like this?”

“The Lord of Winterfell has given us the task of finding whatever it is that is troubling his lands,” Coulson said. “There is a slight chance that it may have come from beyond The Wall. We’ve been over this.”

“Oh well if the  _ Lord  _ insists,” Clint grouched. He didn’t say anything more; either Coulson’s reprimands about him running his mouth had finally sunk in, or he was very aware of the five Winterfell soldiers who were following them through the snow, weapons in hand. Bucky begrudged their presence intently; he, Clint and Coulson were a formidable team in their own rights, and didn’t need the backup of green soldiers who had never spent longer than a day at The Wall, let alone gone beyond it. He suspected it was something to do with a distinct lack of trust on the Lord of Winterfell’s part; he was, after all, responsible for the banishment of Thor, one of their strongest fighters and closest companions at the wall.

“Since when have we let Lords order us beyond the wall?” Bucky asked as he ducked under an ice-heavy branch, carefully scanning the thicket beyond. 

“Since none of your business, Barnes,” Coulson replied easily. “How far away from Jotun pass are we?”

“A few miles yet,” Bucky said. “We need to-”

The sound of snapping branches stopped him dead in his tracks; without a word he drew his sword and ducked low. Behind him everyone fell silent; he looked over his shoulder to see everyone else crouched, swords also in hand. Well, except for Clint, who had his bow in his hand. Bucky suspected he’d been born with the damn thing in his grip; there was little else to explain how attached to it he was.

More rustling, and the sound of something moving in the thicket. He tightened his fingers around his sword, and then jumped a mile as a body landed next to him, thwumping down in the snow and almost sliding right off the path and into the thicket.

“What is it?” Clint asked, bright eyes scanning back and forth. He’d pulled his scarf down so his face was uncovered, his lips faintly blue and his breath fogging in the air in front of him.

“Fuck,” Bucky hissed out, yanking his own scarf down and shoving at Clint. “Don’t make me jump.”

“There’s something in there,” Clint breathed, fingers flexing on his bowstring. He was inching forwards towards the noise, head cocked curiously. Dammit, the man had no sense of self-preservation.  

“Clint, shut up,” Coulson ordered from behind them. “Barnes-”

It happened so quickly that Bucky could barely process what was going on. Clint moved faster than he was expecting, diving headfirst into the thicket; there was a cracking of dead wood and a yelp, the sound of Coulson yelling angrily and the bushes being knocked around and then Clint’s voice calling out.

“Holy shit!”

He appeared, panting and victorious, covered in snow and holding a wriggling wolf pup in one gloved hand. 

“Goddamn it, Clint!” Bucky reached out to shove him. “You are going to make my heart give out.”

“What is that?” one of the soldiers asked, still clutching his sword in his hand.

“A damn wolf pup,” another answered angrily. “That’s not what has been killing our tenants.”

“It’s half dead, throw it back.”

Clint scowled at the soldier, holding up the pup. It was a fair size, with a fluffy grey coat that was matted with blood. Clint winced and beckoned Bucky closer. “Look, it’s missing an eye,” he said. “You been in a scrap, little one?”

“Clint, put it back,” Coulson said suddenly, voice loud on the silent air. “Now.”

“What? No, look at it, he’s starving,” Clint protested. “And he’s hurt.”

“Clint, that’s a Direwolf, put it down!”

Bucky sucked in a breath and leaned back, fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword. He’d heard the stories of Direwolves, of beasts large enough to take down the giant cattle of the north-holds, of wolves that could tear through oak doors and leave scratch marks in stone. This scrap of bloodied fur that Clint had found did not seem to match up to the stories. Clint reared back too, though didn’t let go of the pup, which was now whining piteously, tail tucked up between its legs. “No way,” he said, voicing the doubt that Bucky felt as well. “Direwolves are brutal, this thing is-”

“Put it down,” Coulson repeated adamantly.

“Direwolves are the symbol of Winterfell,” one of the soldiers said. “We should take it back for Lord Laufeyson.”

“No way,” Clint said indignantly, holding the pup to his chest. Bucky watched as it huddled against him, tipping its head up and licking hesitantly at his stubbled chin. “Find your own, this one’s mine.”

“It is not, you are  _ not  _ bringing a Direwolf back to the castle.”

One of the soldiers stepped forwards. “If there’s a pup there's a mother, and that could be what’s doing the killing!”

“Back off,” Clint snarled. Bucky surreptitiously moved so he was almost between Clint and the soldier, ready to strike if the man made so much as another inch towards Clint or the pup. “You said yourself, this one isn’t responsible for killing anything.”

“It will be if it gets much bigger!”

And even though Bucky was mostly there in the brewing argument, he still heard it - the faintest sound on the other side of the thicket, another rustle of branches and bracken.

“Stop!”

Bucky threw up a hand and the quarreling stopped; swords were drawn and breath was held. Mindful of scrabbling claws, Clint slowly tucked the wolf pup down the front of his jerkin so it was completely hidden; with the amount of layers he was wearing to keep warm Bucky could barely make out the lump of the pup resting just above Clint’s belt. Clint placed a steadying palm over the lump and then nocked an arrow on his bow, arms tense and ready to draw.

Bucky strained to listen; he was sure he’d heard something, something like a voice on the air, a faint breath that sounded like a threat. The breeze seemed to die, everything going perfectly still around them as if the entire world had been frozen in time. Inexplicably the air grew colder, sharper; behind him one of the soldiers coughed, trying to draw a proper breath.

“Shhh,” Coulson breathed. His pale eyes were darting back and forth, trying to find anything in the frozen wasteland-

A heart-rending scream tore through the air, and Bucky wheeled around just in time to see one of the Winterfell soldiers vanish, dragged into a snowbank. He barely had time to process the streaks of scarlet that were dragged across the white snow before all hell broke loose. Shapes seemed to surge out of the very air, pale shapes with bright blue eyes, grasping fingers and swords of ice held in skeletal hands.  

“Everyone, fight!” Coulson bellowed, his own sword cleaving through the air. It hit an ice figure and shattered, and then the figure was reaching out, plunging its hand right into the Lord Commander’s chest.

Bucky’s heart stopped, he was sure of it. He lunged forwards but it was too late; Coulson was falling backwards, eyes unseeing as he hit the frozen ground. He looked surprised, like he couldn’t believe anyone had dared kill him, and-

_ “Bucky, run!” _

Clint was there, shoving Bucky to get him moving, firing arrow after arrow into the ice figures. They barely seemed to notice; the arrows were barely more than biting flies, knocked aside or ignored. The screams of the Winterfell soldiers carried on the still air, and Bucky made his feet move, trying to run through the snow, pushing Clint in front of him-

Ice cold fingers grasped hold of his wrist and yanked him back. He cried out, the cold piercing his veins and flooding up his arm across his shoulder and down towards his heart. He staggered and hit the ground on his knees, vision going dark and blurred.

_ “Bucky! Bucky, no!” _

That was Clint, screaming faintly somewhere nearby. Bucky blinked slowly, trying to turn his head to find him. He had to find Clint, had to get him out of there. He had to survive.

_ “Bucky!” _

The word echoed, a thousand miles away. The cold spread further and further. Bucky blinked again, looking up at the fading steel of the sky above him.

He shuddered out one last breath, and then his eyes slid closed and he knew no more.

 

* * *

 

 

**King’s Landing - Now.**  
  


“We could at least send an envoy to the Dreadfort.”

“No, I’m not sending an envoy if it makes us look like we condone what they’re doing.”

“All they’re doing is annexing land, which used to be theirs anyway-”

“You’ve heard the rumours, we cannot ally-”

“Rumours, just rumours, we can’t make policy on rumours.”

Standing away from the council table with his back guarding the door, Steve resisted the urge to roll his eyes as the conversation rolled itself back around to its starting point, chasing its own tail once again. He hated this part of his job - standing idle while the small council made poor decisions very slowly. At least when he’d been head of the army he’d been part of the decision making, able to sit at the table instead of standing behind it, able to make some headway against the problems of the kingdom and quash some of the more ridiculous notions that came from the treasury and church. 

But now, as head of the Kingsguard, he had to simply stand there, guard the door and bite his tongue. Technically, his role was to guard Howard Stark, first of his name and King of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms, but when he was with the small council the only real threat to his health and life was the vast quantities of wine he insisted on pouring down his own neck, and even Steve was in no position to save him from that.

“Rogers.”

Right on cue, the King himself broke into the debate by calling Steve’s name, leaning forwards and pouring himself another goblet of wine. 

“Sire?”

Howard addressed him without looking at him, preoccupied with watching his drink. Though after four years, he was used to Steve standing behind him like a particularly powerful shadow, and thus often didn’t look his way even when they were in the middle of a conversation. “What do you think we do about the Dreadfort?”

All of the faces currently at the table turned to look at him. Everyone was wearing an interested expression, though Steve knew that the range went from genuinely interested to polite to utterly insincere. 

Mindful of both his audience and place, Steve bit back his instinctive response of  _ ‘tell Lord Rumlow that if he takes one more head we’ll take his,’  _ and simply shrugged. 

“Not my place to say, Sire.”

Howard made a displeased noise, impatient. “If you were head of the army, what would you suggest?”

“I am no longer head of the army, the head of the army sits next to you,” Steve said, gesturing towards Ser Rhodes. “He speaks for the soldiers, not me.”

“So very diplomatic,” said Fury, looking oddly pleased. He sat back in his chair, grin turning shark-like. “Maybe we send Rogers to deal with Rumlow and the Dreadfort.”

“Please,” Howard said dismissively, hand-waving the suggestion. “I know Rogers. We’d send him on a peace mission and he would bring Rumlow’s head back on that shield of his.”

There was another huff of laughter and Steve fought to keep his face neutral as he looked to Stane; The Hand of the King was already watching him, a wide smile on his face. “Surely not,” he laughed, using the fingers of one hand to twist idly at the rubies and sapphires which adorned the fingers of his other. “Rogers isn’t a man of action these days. That shield is for show.”

Steve managed to keep his smile pleasant, even as his fingers tightened on the leather straps of his so-called showpiece. “It has served me well,” he said neutrally. “I dare say it will again if the time ever comes.”

“The time is coming,” Rhodes said, though he spared Steve a grateful glance for his tact. “We need to decide on our action against the Dreadfort.”

“Enough of the Dreadfort,” Howard said impatiently. “Let’s get this over with so I can go back to work.”

The small council exchanged looks and Steve had to count to three in the silence of his own mind. This was happening more and more as the years went on; Howard would quickly lose interest in any discussion if an answer wasn't immediately obvious, yearning to get back to his workshop. Just like his son, Steve thought to himself. Both of them obsessed to a fault with mechanics and engineering.

“There is still the other matter to deal with, Sire,” Fury said, sounding bored. “The one...”

“Oh yes,” Howard said. He drained his goblet of wine, looked around for the pitcher. “Is that something that we need to discuss now?”

“What other matter?” Stane asked. Steve felt a small vindictive stab of satisfaction at the fact that Stane was out of the loop for once. Not that Steve trusted Nick Fury completely, but he would take the master of spies over Stane any day. At least Fury was upfront and unapologetic about his untrustworthiness. Not that Stane had ever given Steve reason to distrust or dislike him. It was just instinct.

“The Maximoffs,” Howard said.

“The Maximoffs?” Rhodes echoed, sounding as perplexed as Steve was. “Why are they an issue?”

“Because the assassin we sent to kill the younger Maximoffs has decided to not kill the younger Maximoffs.” 

_ “What?” _

Howard turned to look at Steve, who cursed himself for not being able to stay quiet. “What was that, Rogers?”

“You sent - the Maximoff children are alive? And you sent someone to kill them?”

“Barely children, they’re of the age to be wed,” Fury said. “Which means they’re also of the age to try and claim the throne.”

Howard looked from Rhodes to Fury, brow furrowing. He was either thinking hard or slipping into the place where the wine made his thoughts loose and hard to latch onto. Steve prayed it were the former. “Where are they?”

“My friends say they’re across the narrow sea, in  Vanaheim,” Fury said. “Too close, in my opinion.”

Rhodes now looked incredulous. “I’m sorry, you think that two barely grown children with no money, wealth or support are going to sail across the Narrow Sea to come and take back the throne we rightfully took from their father?”

“Rightful is a dangerous word, General,” Fury said.

“No, I’ll use it,” Rhodey said. “Magneto was a tyrant. Obsessed with worshipping some metal god, completely crazed. We saved the Seven Kingdoms by taking it from him.”

“Be that as it may,” Fury drawled. “Rightful is still a dangerous word. Doing something right does not make it rightful.”

“Is killing children on the remote chance they’ll threaten your Kingship rightful?” Steve asked, and Howard narrowed his eyes.

“Too far,” he said. “You had an opportunity to speak when we discussed the Dreadfort. You didn’t take it. That was not invitation to speak up at a later point when you felt like it. Dismissed.”

“Sire-”

“Dismissed,” Howard repeated angrily. “You’re all dismissed. Go on, leave.”

Quietly fuming, Steve picked up his shield and left the chamber without looking back, blue cloak snapping behind him. Dugan and Morita called out to him from their positions by the door as he stalked past but he did not heed them; he was too angry to risk having any conversation in such close proximity to the King or the other members of the small council. Rhodes shared his anger and disbelief, he felt, but still it would be unwise to speak of it until he was calmer. 

He made his way out of the Council Chambers, through the bustle of the outer courtyard and down to the sacred grove. He felt had enough turmoil in his chest to drive him out of the Red Keep and all the way across the city to the peace and quiet of the Grand Sept, however, even if Howard had dismissed him he had not given him explicit permission to leave the Red Keep. The grove would have to do.

Inside the walls of the grove, it was blessedly quiet. He could still hear the noise from the courtyard, a hundred voices and the barking of the dogs in the kennel, hooves on the cobbles and the sound of metal on metal from the smithy. In here though, under the shade of the trees, it felt further away. Less important.

He made his way to the Heart Tree; the huge old oak with its crimson leaves that stood in the centre of the grove. In all honesty, he were not fully sold on religion, in any of the forms it took within the Kingdom. His mother had been though, and it was ingrained habit to find peace in these quiet places, even if it weren't the gods he spoke to while he was there.

“Another fine mess on the horizon,” he muttered as he set his shield down against the trunk of the tree, sitting down heavily and leaning back beside it. “Any advice for me?”

There leaves of the tree rustled, comforting. Steve laughed shortly, mostly at his own foolishness. He knew the trees would never answer him back, but still. It never stopped him.

“What do I do, Buck?” he murmured, closing his eyes. The sun beat down; shapes of orange slid across his closed eyelids as the leaves of the tree above him danced in the breeze. He ached to shed his armour, but he was not permitted to do so while on duty, and an oath was an oath.

He was beginning to feel like he was carrying the weight of the world in oaths. An oath for his duty to the King, an oath to never marry, an oath to never pursue romance, an oath to give his life as the Kingdom needed. The list went on, and on. 

As did the list of oaths that Steve had broken. Another weight, added to the rest. 

“Oh, look at that. Praying again, Ser Rogers? It won’t bring the dead back, you know, no matter how much you talk to them.”

A loud voice disturbed the peace of the grove, carrying easily on the air, but Steve couldn’t fight the grudging smile that curved his mouth as it reached his ears.  “Oh look at that,” he replied. “Out of the workshop. Be careful, you may melt in the sunlight after being in the dark for so long.”

“You are not funny,” Tony said, tone matter of fact as he came and lowered himself to the grass beside Steve, sprawling out backwards in an indolent way that came easily to a man born into power and prestige. Tony never cared how much space or time he took up, though some days Steve couldn’t tell if that were a trait of royalty or just simply Tony being  _ Tony. _

“Neither are you,” Steve replied, closing his eyes again. “Go away, back to your machines. I’m thinking.”

“You’re brooding,” Tony replied absently. “Bruce made me leave the workshop. He says I’ll ruin my eyes if I keep building in low light. I may ask the builders to remove the roof.”

“Then your machines would get wet when it rained.”

Tony groaned. “It hasn't rained in years,” he complained. “Why would it start now?”

“Just to spite you,” Steve said with a small smile. He opened his eyes fully to look Tony over; he was covered in grease and his hands were littered with burns and scratches. Once again, he was wearing a simple tunic and breeches, not the Princely garments he should be sporting while out of his workshop.

“Who are we talking to today?” Tony asked, peering up at the tree.

Steve exhaled slowly, rubbing at his chin. “Bucky,” he admitted.

Tony hummed noncommittally. “Did he have any good advice?”

“Not yet,” Steve said. “I think you scared him off.”

Tony continued to look up, bright eyes tracking the soft dip and sway of the branches. “How long?”

“One thousand, eight hundred and thirty two days since I received the letter saying he was gone,” Steve said with a twisted smile. “Three thousand and more since he was sent to the wall.”

“Five years since he died,” Tony said softly, never one to dance around the word. “Five whole years, and I bet you still blame yourself-”

“Tony,” Steve warned. “Don’t.”

Thankfully, Tony fell silent. Steve don’t know if Tony’d picked up on his mood or if he was caught up in his own mind, dreaming of cogs and gears, whatever it is he could make those pieces of metal do. Tony oscillated between being very considerate of others and utterly tactless, and Steve never knew where the lines were going to be drawn before Tony had crossed them. 

“What happened in the Council meeting?” Tony finally asked. “Howard seems particularly pleasant this afternoon, did Fury bring more bad news from his friends?”

“You know you’re supposed to come to the Small Council,” Steve said. “As heir-”

“Maybe another day,” Tony said, interrupting just as Steve knew he would. He huffed out a soft laugh, kicking at Tony’s knee and smiling as Tony fought back a smile of his own. 

“I got into trouble,” Steve said. “Talking out of turn.”

“ _ You _ got into trouble? Ser Blue knight, Head of the Kingsguard, Protector of the Honor of the Realm?” Tony said with a frown, and clambered to his feet. “What happened in there?”

“You missed Star of the Seven Kingdoms and Shield of the King,” Steve added, squinting up at him. “You know I can’t talk about it.”

“I’m the heir to the throne. I command you to tell me.”

“Kingsguard,” Steve said, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head. “Not Princeguard.” 

“Traitor,” Tony yawned, scratching at his chest. “I’m going back to the workshop.”

“Maester Banner will chase you straight back out,” Steve called after him, but Tony just ignored him, ducking under a low hanging branch and out of sight. Steve watched him go, all at once feeling a thousand times lonelier without him at his side.

“A day best forgotten,” he muttered, climbing to his feet and leaning down to pick up his sword and shield. His shoulders heaved in a sigh as he leaned forwards and brushed the knuckles of his sword hand across the trunk of the tree. “Not sure I can bite my tongue much longer, Buck. Having a hard time working out what the the right thing is to do, here.”

The leaves continued their gentle rustling. Steve wished he could parse an answer from the sound, but he left the grove just as troubled and uncertain as when he entered. 

* * *

 

 

_ “Just go, Steve, get out of here!” _

_ “No, not without you-” _

_ “I’m telling you Steve, go!” _

Faint threads of dream-addled memory still clouding his vision, Steve woke with a gasp, arm raised, ready to lash out at the lingering shadows, the soldiers with their chains and manacles, reaching out to clap Bucky’s wrists in iron-

“Easy, easy. Steve, it’s me.”

The figments vanished, mirages fading into shadow. Steve sat up in his bed, cursing as Tony’s whispers filtered into his sleep-fogged brain. A hand grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled it down, another coming to rest on his neck, callused fingers rough on his sweaty skin. 

“You’re having nightmares again, you need to tell Bruce.”

“No,” Steve said, shaking his head. He reached out, intending to push Tony away but instead covered the hand resting on his neck with one of his own. “No, I’m fine. Get me some water, will you?”

Tony moved away, a shadow in the pale grey of the room. Steve cursed under his breath, shifting so he was leaning against the cold stone of the wall. His stomach felt tied up in a knot, his hands clumsy and cooperative.

“Here.”

Tony sat on the edge of his bed, passing him a goblet of water. He tucked one bare foot underneath him, rubbing at his upper arm and watching Steve with careful eyes. He was always watching Steve, blue eyes tracking his every move whenever they shared a space. 

The water was cold and brought Steve back to his senses. He drained the goblet and Tony took it from him, setting it on his nightstand. 

“Why are you here? Am I needed?” Steve asked, scattered brain thinking of where he’d left his shield and armour.

“It’s sweet, that you still ask that,” Tony said, leaning back and resting a hand on Steve’s knee, settling him back down. “You know why I’m here.”

“Mm,” Steve said, rubbing a hand over his face as he felt his heartbeat slowly return to normal. “Gossip or my body.”

“Gossip or your body,” Tony agreed easily. “Come here.”

Before Steve could protest, Tony was moving forwards, clambering into his lap. His knees slid either side of Steve’s thighs and he folded him into his arms, holding his head against his shoulder, both hands resting on the back of his head. Steve allowed and welcomed the gesture, his own broad palms coming to rest of Tony’s sides.

“You spent the entire day lost in that pretty head of yours, didn’t you?” Tony said, voice a low rumble that Steve could feel in his chest. “Was it the council meeting?”

“You’re like a dog with a bone,” Steve huffed, rolling his head against Tony’s collarbones. 

“Well it’s obviously left you out of sorts,” Tony said, and Steve felt him press a kiss to his temple. “So it’s important. You know, important to you, important to me.”

Steve tightened his hold on Tony’s waist. “Were you seen?”

“And it’s not sweet that you still ask that,” Tony said. “We’re fine.”

Reassured, Steve slid his hands around Tony’s waist, holding him closer. “Your father still won’t do anything about Rumlow,” he said. “And the Maximoffs have resurfaced. He’s sent assassins after them.”

“My contenders for the throne? Am I going to have to nominate a fighter for me? Because no offense, but I’ll take Pepper any day.”

“No, Tony,” Steve said tiredly. “Don’t joke.”

“You might as well ask me not to talk.”

“Then don’t talk.”

“How many Maximoffs are we talking? Two, right? I could take two Maximoffs in a fight.”   

Steve groaned and slid back against the wall, away from Tony. His hands fell back against the sheets of his bed, palm up and useless.

“Tony.”

“What?” Tony rocked forwards, his body following Steve’s, curling over him. His hands rested against Steve’s chest and he leaned in, his mouth hovering over Steve’s collarbone, breath warm and full of promise. “I’ve got my gossip. What was the other thing I’m here for?”

Steve let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “I feel like I’m barely clinging to my oaths.”

That, at least, made Tony pause. He retreated marginally, so he could meet Steve’s eyes. “The one about staying chaste is long gone,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Exasperated, Steve slipped his hands under Tony’s thighs and lifted him, turning them over in one swift and easy move. Tony landed on his back with a soft grunt, holding onto Steve’s shoulders and glaring up at him.

“Manhandling the heir to the Iron Throne. I’ll have you arrested.”

“I’ll arrest myself in the morning,” Steve assured him, and leaned down to kiss him gently. He pulled back, nudging Tony’s nose with his own. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Wow, I’ve not heard that since the first night I broke in here.”

Steve shut Tony up in the most effective way he knew how; he ducked his head to kiss him. He was gratified to see that when he pulled away, Tony looked much further away from running his mouth than he had been. 

“Believe it or not, this isn’t actually all about you,” he said dryly, and Tony’s mouth hitched in a mischievous smile. Steve rubbed his thumb over the corner of Tony’s mouth, absently following the lines of his goatee. “I’m supposed to do as I’m bid,” he said, and Tony’s eyes slowly opened again. “Do exactly as the King commands. I don’t know how much longer I can do that for.”

“I’m surprised that you’ve done it for this long,” Tony sighed. “Okay. So we can work with the fact that you bedding me is not your biggest problem right now.”

“I long for the days where you were my biggest problem,” Steve said. “Please go to the council meetings. Try and talk some sense into them.”

Tony dropped his head back. “Please, no,” he groaned. “I’ll just end up fighting with His Royal Highness. I could always talk to Obadiah.”

“No,” Steve cut across him, tensing at the mention of Stane. “Don’t.”

“I will never understand your problem there,” Tony sighed. He looked like was going to say more, but the words never appeared. He just seemed to shake his head a little, as if shaking away the thoughts, and then slid his hands up to curl around Steve’s shoulders. “Shall we stop talking politics and do what we’re good at?”

“Yes,” Steve said, turning his head to kiss Tony’s wrist. “Let’s.”

 

* * *

 

Steve woke the next morning, alone. Tony must have slipped away as he slept, as he usually did on the nights they spent together. It was always a challenge to wake after a night with Tony; part of him felt infinitely better, like his heart could finally be freed from the iron bands that seemed to constantly press against it, and it constantly warred with the part of him that felt guilt at betraying his oaths.  _ Breaking your chastity oath while unlawfully bedding the heir to the throne, _ he mused somewhat ruefully, but that was a stab of guilt he’d long since learned to ignore. He wouldn’t have broken the oath for anyone else, and he would have broken if for Tony regardless of if he were the King himself or a beggar on the streets. Knowing that in his heart of hearts made it easier to live with, if only a little.

He washed and dressed silently, listening to the sound of the rest of the Keep starting to wake. All too soon came a knock at his door, the heavy oak pushed inwards to reveal Pepper, already fully armoured and with her blue cloak flowing behind her. 

“The King has not slept,” she informed him quietly. “He is still in his workshop.”

“Just what I wanted to hear,” Steve said. “I’ll stay with him for the day. How drunk is he?”

“Not as bad as he could be,” Pepper said. “Rhodey is taking Tony out of the Keep on a supply run.”

Steve frowned. “He went on a supply run last week.”

“Yes, and I hid his supplies so Rhodey had an excuse to get him out of the Keep,” Pepper said. “I’ll go with them.”

Steve nodded. “Take Morita too.”

Pepper nodded. “Ser.”

She turned and left, the faint whisper of a blue cloak on the edge of Steve’s vision. Lost in thought, he absently listened to her footsteps fade, eyes fixed unseeingly on his shield that was propped up against the wall opposite his bed. He stared so long the colours began to blur; the crimson of heart-tree leaves bleeding into the blue of the sky and the white of the seven pointed star.

A shout from outside drifted up through his window, and he blinked himself out of his reverie. He checked the clasps on his cloak, sheathed his sword and then reached for his shield, slipping it onto his arm. It settled into place and his fingers flexed on the leather straps, feeling the weight in his hand as he left the room without looking back.

 

* * *

 

**At the Wall**

Watching the new recruits with narrowed eyes, Clint folded his arms across his chest to stop his hands reaching for his bow. They were sloppy. They were lazy. And they were going to last mere days if they kept going the way they were going.  He grimaced as he watched Thor send another man tumbling to the floor, landing on his back on the frozen mud of the courtyard, the breath knocked out of him. Thor lifted his eyes to where Clint stood up on the covered parapet walk, offering a look that was probably an attempt at seeming apologetic.

Clint groaned, scrubbing his face with a cold hand. “Tell him to get up!” he yelled, throwing the hand in the air in a frustrated gesture.

Thor grinned. “You heard the Lord Commander,” he said to the man on the ground. “Get up.”

The man scrambled to his feet, humiliated and angry. He was breathing hard, and spared Clint a spiteful glance before lunging at Thor in a poorly executed attempt at wrestling him to ground. Thor simply stepped aside, and the man went sprawling onto the ground on his front this time. Laughter welled up from the assembled knights and guards, and Thor just shrugged again, not even bothering to look contrite this time around.

Clint was not amused.  “Alright, that’s enough,” he said. “Everyone get out of here. Go on, get duties done. Go.”

A few men moved away, the rest sort of absently milled around a little, making no real effort to do as bid. And despite saying that he didn’t want to be Lord Commander at least four times a day, Clint  _ was _ Lord Commander and that meant he would be listened to.

“Lucky, up,” he commanded curtly, and the Direwolf that had been curled up near his feet immediately sprang up onto his hind legs, huge front paws resting on the balustrade. He turned his head left and right quickly, compensating for his missing eye, letting out a whining yip that probably wasn’t befitting a beast of his stature. He whined again, dipping his head restlessly and scrabbling his claws against the wood.

“Move before you end up as dinner!” Clint bellowed out. “Lucky, bite whoever is the last man left in the yard.”

That at least got the bastards moving. Several outright ran, including the man who had been so easily knocked down by Thor, limping off towards the stables with a frightened glance over his shoulder. 

“Go on Lucky,” Clint said, nudging the wolf with his elbow. “Nip whoever’s slow. Nothing nasty.” 

Lucky was gone before he’d even finished the sentence, leaping away and bounding down the stone stairs. His ears were pricked and he looked more excited than threatening, but Clint knew the men he needed to get the message across to would be cowed by sheer size and amount of teeth, regardless of how much they know about canine body language. 

“How about Styrke?” a voice called out. Clint huffed out a laugh, a cloud of fog in the air in front of his mouth as Thor climbed the steps, coming to stand next to him. He leaned forwards, elbows resting on the scratched wood. “Means strength. Much more intimidating a thing to shout across a battlefield.”

“His name is Lucky,” Clint said for what could easily be the hundredth time. “And we’re not on a battlefield.”

“We might be some day,” Thor said, and raised a hand in a fist, a triumphant gesture. “ _ Rovdyret. _ Predator.”

Clint shook his head and gestured down, inviting Thor to observe the scene in the courtyard. Lucky had hold of the unfortunate slowest man’s cloak and was tugging - well, by this point the man was on his knees and it was more like dragging - him backwards across the yard, shaking his head from side to side, tail wagging furiously. “Oh yes. A natural born predator.”

“He’s still a pup,” Thor said. “He’ll grow.”

Clint absently watched as Lucky let them man go, only to gambol around him and then pounce on him, knocking the man flat to the floor. He was now shouting angrily, trying to shove Lucky off and stagger to his feet. 

“How about I throw Lucky into the deal?” Clint said. “You be Lord Commander, and you get Lucky too.”

Thor laughed. “Once again, with all my heart, no.”

Clint sighed but didn’t push it. He knew the story of Thor’s banishment from Winterfell; his unapproved incursion into enemy territory which had been brutally called out as treason against his Lord Master and by dint, the throne. Yes, he knew the story and yes he knew why that meant Thor refused to stand up and take charge, but knowing it didn’t stop him asking Thor to step up and do exactly that. In his defense, he was down to asking Thor once a week instead of every day. 

Maybe he knew Thor would be better suited to the role. Maybe he wanted to stop the constant fear lurking in the back of his mind that he wasn't good enough to lead. Maybe he just wanted to go back to shooting things and being insubordinate.

“I’m going to the top of the Wall,” he said, still absently watching Lucky knock the man over again. “Do you want to come with me?”

“I don’t know,” Thor said, standing back and folding his arms across his chest. “I may stay and watch the entertainment some more.”

“I command you to come with me,” Clint said, turning away. “You can help me and Heimdall decide how far we’re going with cutting back the treeline.”

“Yes, Lord Commander,” Thor said easily, the amusement in his voice following Clint. “Should you maybe call Lucky away?”

Clint dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. He pulled the hood of his cloak up and tugged his scarf up over the lower half of his face. Thirteen years at this frozen hell castle and he still wasn't used to the way the cold bit at him, and it would only be worse with the wind that whipped over the top of the wall, tugging harshly at cloaks and trying to tug unsuspecting members of the Night’s Watch from their perches and down to a quick and undignified death. 

They climbed into the carriage-lift; Clint nodded at the men, and with a creaking of levers and ropes, the carriage shifted and started to ascend, swaying slightly as it did. 

“So,” Thor said, reaching out to drag his gloved fingers against the ice of the Wall as they rose. “Are we really heading up to discuss the tree line?”

Clint frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have been out of sorts today,” Thor said. “Ill-tempered.”

The frown transformed into an angry scowl. The temptation to snap back was unbearable, but Clint knew Thor meant no offense and besides, he didn't want to prove him right.  Instead, he stared out over the edge of the basket, eyes scanning the castle and courtyard below. “I think we need to push the trees back another hundred feet,” he said. “To have enough wood to refill the stores, and because I don’t like that we can’t see the brook.”

“That we can do,” Thor said. “It will keep the men busy.”

“Make the new recruits go out first,” Clint said. “Put the fear of the Beyond into them.”

“They are full enough of fear,” Thor said. “None of them seem to be confident. A lot of denial of their crimes.”

Clint groaned. Those were the worst of men, he found, and seeing as the Wall was the dumping ground for criminals from across the land, he’d already had plenty of experience with  _ bad. _ He’d tried over the past years to set a certain standard for the men of the Night’s Watch, but pickings were slim. Still, he’d rather go a month with no new recruits than take in any old rapists and thugs. 

“They've all been convinced, right?” he said, taking a step to the edge of the wall. 

“By a judge and the gods,” Thor said. “Though obviously they are all innocent.”

“Obviously.”

“Heimdall has been telling them all that you were sent here for stealing a goat,” Thor tells him. 

“Now why would he tell them that?” Clint groaned. “No-one respects a Lord Commander who was sent to the Wall for that.”

Thor chuckled softly, and they spent the rest of the ascent in companionable silence. The moment they were level with the top of the wall, Clint vaulted out of the carriage and onto the frozen walkway. He quickly walked along the length, ducking under the huge oak beams of the long-unused catapults, heading towards Heimdall's watchtower. Heimdall was standing in his customary spot, just outside the stone tower, his hands resting on the pommel of his huge two-handed long sword, the point embedded in the well worn groove in the ice. 

“So, I stole a goat, huh?”

“Yes, an honourable goat named  Tanngrisnir,” Heimdall said without looking around, his deep voice carrying easily. “You took him from the private collection of a Lady from the South and attempted to use him as a distraction to steal a pocketful of silver from a brothel.”

“You are ruining my reputation.”

“Relax, Lord Commander,” Heimdall said. “The rest of the recruits currently think you are here for stealing the face from a faceless man.” 

“Well that’s slightly better,” Clint conceded. Stealing from an assassin would earn him some credibility, that was certain. “What news?”

“You know I would stop with my tall tales if you told us why you has been sent here, Lord Commander,” Heimdall said easily. Clint didn’t have to look around to know that Thor would be smiling.

“What news, Heimdall?” he repeated.

“All is well,” Heimdall said. “Nothing moves, nothing breathes, nothing lives.”

“Comforting,” Thor said, tucking his hands into the folds of his cloak. 

“Makes our job easier,” Clint said. “I’m going to organise some patrols to go North of the wall soon.”

It was news to both Heimdall and Thor, but they simply nodded their chins in acknowledgement of Clint’s decision. Nobody liked doing patrols - after the bloodbath that had occurred five years ago, nerves were still high. The fact that one man out of eight had survived was bad; the fact that Clint could barely remember the attack so couldn’t explain what had done it was worse. 

“Have you decided about the treeline?” Heimdall asked. 

“Yes, we’ll strip it back to the brook,” Clint said. “Much better visibility and then we can store - Heimdall?”

Heimdall’s head had snapped to the left, his bright eyes narrowing. “Something moves,” he said slowly, brow furrowing. 

Somewhere far below, Lucky started to howl, the faintest edge of the sound drifting up to their position. It sounded mournful, frightened, even at this distance.

Clint slowly reached back and unhitched his bow from his back, drawing an arrow. 

“Shall we sound the alarm?” Thor asked.

“Wait,” Heimdall said, eyes flicking back and forth. “I see it.”

He lifted one hand from the pommel of his sword and pointed. Heart starting to race, Clint looked in the direction indicated and held his breath waiting, waiting. 

And then, just down from their position a single figure staggered out of the treeline. It was only because of his keen eyesight that Clint could make it out; it was a man, or at least shaped like one, and he was wearing the black cloak of the Night’s Watch. He made it several steps forwards into the breach between the trees and the wall and then stopped as if something were holding him back.

“What in the gods’ name?” Thor asked, but Clint’s brain was quickly adding pieces together, his heart now pounding uncomfortably. The man stepped forward once more but seemed to have no strength and sank down onto his knees. He reached up and pulled his hood back, and even with the distance - and five years of passed time - against him, Clint instantly, instinctively knew who it was.

_ “Bucky.” _

His mouth made the shape of the word but no sound was made; he was frozen in place as if his limbs were carved from ice, and then the world seemed to restart around him. He surged into motion, running back along the wall towards the carriage. “Thor, make them open the gate!”

“What is it?” Thor asked, running just behind him and just as unheeding of the slippery footing. “Clint!”

“Bucky,” Clint said as he tripped into the waiting carriage. “It’s Bucky, for fuck’s sake Thor, sound the alarm and get them to open the fucking gate!”  

Thor didn’t waste another moment. He drew his horn and leaned over the side of the carriage; four short blasts followed, the never-used but well-known emergency signal to open the single gate to the tunnel that led through the wall.    

“Come on, can't this basket go any faster,” Clint snapped, leaning out over the edge. “Open the gates you bastards!” he bellowed, as if anyone at the bottom would be able to hear him. Lucky was still howling, the sound getting louder with every foot they descended. 

Still too slow.

“Fuck waiting around,” Clint snapped, and before Thor could stop him - not that Thor was in any place to speak about reckless acts in the heat of the moment - Clint was climbing onto the edge of the carriage, crouching and then leaping, grabbing hold of one of the many ropes that held it in place. Much quicker than the carriage moved, Clint slid down the rope, thankful for the thick gloves he were wearing.

He hit the floor to find chaos; Lucky’s howling was deafening this close, men were drawing weapons and there was a fistfight happening over by the gate, which was unbolted but not open. Clint strode over just as one of the men, Fandral, punched another and sent him crumpling to the floor, drawing his sword and pointing it at the others.

“Order is to open the gate, boys,” he said, panting. “So we open the gate.”

The gods could bless Fandral, Clint thought fervently as he ran over. They could bless him and forgive him for every pocket he had stolen from and honour him beyond necessity. 

“Are you mad?” another shouted back.

“Get that fucking gate open!” Clint bellowed. His anger was palpable, and the men that had been hesitating quickly thought again and hastened to obey the command.

The gate was pulled open with a screeching of tired hinges and the groaning of iron and the cracking of ice. Some of the men looked up nervously but Clint didn’t care; he was through the gate the moment it was open enough for him to slip through, Fandral right behind him, holding a torch aloft.

“What’s the rush, Commander?” Fandral asked, as they reached the very end of the tunnel. Fandral took the time to light the old torches set into the wall; they flickered weakly but caught. Clint headed straight for the winch that would open the far door, shoving with all of his might against the frozen mechanisms. It gave, and then Fandral was there helping him to wind on, the doors opening outwards and flooding the tunnel with pale winter light.

Clint was through the gate like a loosed arrow, running straight out and towards the slumped black figure that was miraculously still there. Fanrdal followed without hesitation, and then Lucky was racing past him, his one eye locked on Bucky.

“Lucky, no,” Clint gasped, but all Lucky did was drop onto his belly near Bucky, whining and shuffling, edging forwards and shoving at Bucky’s still leg with his muzzle, whining again and retreating.

Heart now feeling as if it were going to give out under the pressure, Clint covered the last hundred yards at a pace he didn’t know he could manage and skidded to a stop on his knees, almost crashing right into Bucky’s prone form. “Buck,” he croaked out, reaching over and pushing Bucky’s dark hair away from his face. He was white, paler than Clint had ever seen him. “Buck, can you hear me, it’s Clint. Get up, Buck, come on.”

Bucky didn’t move. He looked to be barely breathing. Now fully panicking, Clint tore his glove off with his teeth and held his fingers under Bucky’s nose, praying to feel even the slightest of breaths.

“No, no, no,” Clint muttered. “This is bad, this is very bad-”

Lucky nudged at Bucky’s foot again, then sat back and whined, before letting out a short sharp volley of barks, ending with a fearful howl.

Bucky’s eyes snapped open. He drew in a shuddering breath and surged up, ready to bolt. Clint grabbed hold of his shoulders and wrestled him still; Bucky had used to be much stronger than he was but right now he was weak with cold and hunger, and Clint easily kept him in place.

“Easy, easy,” Clint said. “Bucky, it’s me. Bucky, I got you.”

Chest still heaving as he tried to draw a proper breath, Bucky’s eyes found Clint’s. Grey, just as grey as they always had been, but now full of fear and some awful shadow that Clint was frightened to see. He didn’t know what to do, he had no idea how Bucky was alive, he’d seen him die-

“I made it,” Bucky managed to say, his fingers grabbing hold of Clint’s arms. “I-”

His voice faded and his eyes fluttered; he looked on the brink of collapse again. Clint dragged him further up, holding him to his chest, his ungloved hand on the back of his head. He could hear footsteps behind him, shouting voices and Thor’s deep tones giving commands.

“Commander, we better get him inside,” Fandral said. “Come on.”

Clint nodded, tipping Bucky’s head back. His forehead creased as he tried to open his eyes, and Clint shushed him, pressing his trembling palm to Bucky’s cheek. “Come on, Buck,” Clint said, belatedly looking up and around to see who was nearby. Far too many people. Fuck.

With Fandral’s help, he managed to get on his feet with Bucky lifted across his shoulders. He wasn’t the strongest but he’d be damned if he let anyone else carry Bucky back to the castle. “Come on,” he said to Lucky, and then to Thor, “make sure everyone gets southside and lock the gates. Set extra guards and send ten men up to Heimdall. Send the Maester to my chamber and get me a raven.”

Thor nodded, and then sent him a questioning look. “A raven?”

Clint nodded, hitching Bucky more securely over his shoulder and starting to walk. “Yeah,” he grunted. “I better tell the goddamn Star of the Seven Kingdoms that this son of a bitch is alive.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Hey,” Clint murmured as Bucky’s eyes slowly opened. Bucky made a displeased sound, scrunching up his face and turning away. He still looked pale, too pale.

“This way,” Clint said, tilting Bucky’s head back. He reached up with the cloth, damp with warm water. He slowly pressed it across Bucky’s forehead, and Bucky swallowed hard.

“Everything aches,” he said, voice rasping. One hand fumbled down to take hold of the edge of the bearskin blanket that Clint had thrown over him. “Is the fire lit?”

“You bet it is,” Clint said, and reached to help, tugging the blanket up over Bucky’s bare chest. “The Maester came to see you. You’ve lost five toes and a bit of an earlobe from frostbite, you’re starving, you’re almost at a fever, and we’ve no idea what to do about  _ that. _ ”

Bucky followed Clint’s pointing finger and he grimaced, flexing the fingers of the hand that had being lying motionless atop the blanket. They were  _ blue _ , as was his hand and the rest of his arm, all the way up to his shoulder. And it wasn’t the blue of fingers left out in the air too long, it was the deep blue of ice pushed up from the bottom of freshwater lakes, the blue that the evening sky was as the last streaks of orange faded. It wasn’t natural.

“It doesn't hurt,” Bucky said with a frown, lifting the hand and looking curiously at it.

“It’s freezing,” Clint said in disbelief, reaching out to touch Bucky’s wrist. “How does it not hurt?”

Bucky shrugged. “It doesn’t,” he said simply. “But it won’t warm up, either.”

“What happened to you?”

The frown came back. Bucky looked at his fingers, the blue a startling contrast to Clint’s. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just remember something grabbing hold of my arm, and then nothing. Nothing until the moment I saw the wall. Hearing you next to me.”

Clint nodded, and his fingers moved up to fold around Bucky’s cold ones. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said suddenly, and felt his throat going tight. “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m not,” Bucky said, and he struggled to sit up. “I’m alright-”

“Stop,” Clint insisted. “Gods, Bucky - I will command you to stop if I have to.”

Bucky sank back onto the blankets, wincing. “Command me?”

“Oh yeah. You and Phil had the audacity to die so I got named Lord Commander. Don’t worry about it. Everything is under control. I’m better at being in charge than you’d think. I hate it.”

Bucky blinked at him. “Well, the place isn’t on fire, and the castle is still standing.” The faintest of smiles hitched his mouth. “So I guess you are.”

Clint nodded. “I’ve sent a raven south,” he said. “To Steve.”

Bucky lifted his real hand - the one that still looked normal - and pressed it over his mouth. “Steve,” he croaked through his fingers, before dropping them. “He’s still - he’s okay?”

“Okay, more than okay,” Clint said. “He’s Head of the Kingsguard.”

Bucky’s eyes shone with tears. “Little Stevie Rogers,” he said. “Head of the army and now head of the Kingsguard. Makes getting dumped in this shithole worth it.”

“It’s not all bad,” Clint said, and he twisted around to pick up the wooden bowl that rested on the small table behind him. “See, the best questionable stew ever.”

“And a night in the Lord Commander’s bed, apparently,” Bucky said with another faint smile. 

“And the next few weeks in the Lord Commander’s bed,” Clint said. He half expected Bucky to resists, to argue, but he didn’t. He just nodded, still slumped back against the heaped blankets. 

“Well, if the Lord Commander commands,” he said with another hard swallow.

“I do,” Clint said. “And if anyone argues, Lucky will have them for dinner.”

Bucky frowned, gritting his teeth and pushing himself up into a sitting position. His eyes slid to the bowl that Clint was still holding, so Clint passed it over. “Who’s Lucky?” he asked, resting the bowl in his lap and taking the offered spoon gratefully. “Did you replace me and get a new hired thug to do the dirty work?”

“No, Lucky’s a direwolf. My direwolf,” Clint said.

Bucky’s hand paused, spoon resting in the questionable stew. “You have a -” he broke off, eyes going wide. “The pup - the pup you found before the attack. You kept it?”

“I think he kept me,” Clint said. “He’s outside the door. I’d let him in, but he’s the worst behaved animal around here.”

“Including you?” Bucky said.

“Hey, that’s no way to speak to your Lord Commander,” Clint said, but offered Bucky a smile to establish that he were joking. Not that Bucky would take him seriously even if he weren’t.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and Clint sighed. “Here we go, Commander things to attend to,” he said. “I’ll let Lucky in to stay with you, he’s a harmless ball of fluff, honestly. Eat your stew and get some rest.”

He climbed to his feet and leaned forwards to press a kiss to Bucky’s forehead; Bucky tilted his chin up, following, but Clint didn’t indulge him. He had men to check in on, and had a job to do in quashing the ripples of unease and unrest that has appeared since the alarm a few hours prior. And Bucky had to rest and recover.

Collecting his cloak and bow, he strode to the door, pulling it open and nimbly sidestepping as Lucky bolted in. He did a lap of the room, chasing his own tail, and then jumped up onto the foot of the bed. 

“Lucky, goddamnit!” 

Bucky reared back a little, holding his stew up out of the way, but when Lucky didn’t pounce or bite or growl, he hesitantly held out blue fingers and then a smile - a real smile - broke out over his face as Lucky licked them and then shuffled up the bed, head resting on - and pretty much taking up the whole of - Bucky’s lap and tail thumping against the blankets, his one eye fixed on Bucky’s face.   

“Trust you to like him more,” Clint said with a roll of his eyes, and stepped out into the corridor to meet Thor, pulling the door behind him.

“Yes?”

“The extra guard is set,” Thor told him. “The men are restless, but they seem more curious than afraid. Fandral knows it is Bucky that has returned, and I have told him to keep it to himself.”

“No, let him tell,” Clint said. “In fact, you were here when the last patrol went out. Let people know it’s Bucky.”

Thor nodded. “As you wish. What else?”

Clint sighed, walking along the corridor and swinging his cloak around his shoulders. “The Maester doesn't have a clue what has happened to his arm. It’s like the worst frostbite I’ve ever seen apart from it doesn't seem to have hurt or killed any flesh in any way. I think we need to call for help.”

Thor nodded. “I hate to say it, but the Maester of Winterfell probably has the most extensive knowledge of the north. Maybe even Loki himself. His library is extensive, and his knowledge is probably second to none.”

“The same Loki who upheld your banishment even after your father died?” Clint said. “No. I’m not validating him.”

“Then it’s Banner, from King’s Landing,” Thor said, and Clint groaned. 

“Fuck,” he bit out. “I don’t want to go anywhere near King’s Landing. One wrong move and Stark will have me executed.”

“You’ve been here for thirteen years,” Thor said. “What in the gods’ name did you do to have that still holding over you?”

“Oh you know, stole a goat from a Lady of the South’s personal collection,” Clint said evasively. “Damn. I should have asked Steve to send Banner.”

“The king would not part with his Maester for the likes of us,” Thor said. “Especially not if you are in such bad favour as you claim.”

“There’s got to be something we can do,” Clint said. “We can just-”

He broke off as he heard an almighty crash from back down the corridor, then a volley of barking and Bucky’s voice shouting. He was back down the corridor quicker than he could blink, Thor following just as Fandral had the day before. 

He barged back into his room to find Bucky standing near the open shutter of the window, one hand thrown out to hold Lucky back, and the other clutching a screaming bunch of white feathers to his chest. 

“What in the gods?” Thor asked in amazement,

“Lucky, get back!” Clint shouted, and thankfully Lucky backed off, loping around to stand behind Clint’s legs, hackles raised. “Bucky?”

Bucky didn't respond; his attention was on the feathers. Clint watched in amazement as he shushed and soothed in with a trembling hand and voice, and as Bucky lifted it to his shoulder he realised it was a goddamn raven.

A  _ white _ raven.

“Shush, shush,” Bucky said as the bird cawed loudly, shuffling sideways along Bucky’s bare shoulder before digging its pale beak into his hair. “Shush, you’re okay.”

Clint couldn’t believe his eyes. White Ravens were the property of the Maesters of Oldtown - only raised to deliver the message that the season had changed. They’d had ten long years of summer and were honestly holding their breath waiting for winter to begin and Bucky turning up with a white raven that he’d apparently gotten from nowhere couldn't mean anything good. “What the fuck are you doing with that?”

Bucky lifted pale eyes to Clint’s. “He’s mine,” he said. “He’s been with me while I was out there - and I remember what happened.”

“What? Clint asked urgently, fingers tightening on Lucky’s fur as the raven cawed at him obnoxiously. 

“Winter is coming,” Bucky said, voice shaking. “And we are in big, big trouble.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to words-aremy-weapons and Everyworldneedslove for the beta help and encouragement.

**Across the Narrow Sea**

The sound of the waves gently breaking grew slightly stronger as her feet led her down the beach towards the shoreline. The white sand became damp underfoot, cool in the wake of retreating waves.

She crouched down to pick up a shell, rubbing her thumb across the gentle ridges to brush aside the clinging grains of sand. Straightening up, she lifted her head to look out over the surface of the water, the setting sun sending golden sparks glittering across the surface. The waves were barely there, lazily rolling back and forth with the minimum of effort. She stepped forwards into the water, toes and the end of her dress dipping into the surf.

“Wanda! Wanda, where are you?”

She sighed, folding her fingers around the shell. She heard footsteps running towards her - Pietro always ran, he could never walk anywhere - and then he was at her elbow, looking impatient.

“Evening meal is about to be served, and here you are standing around in the waves,” he said, reaching over and taking the shell out of her hand. “More shells for your collection, little sister?”

“I’m not hungry,” Wanda said, holding out her hand to take the shell back. Pietro held it out of her reach, using his six inches of added height to look at her down his nose.

“Well you have to come anyway.”

Wanda jabbed her fingers into Pietro’s chest and he gave her the shell back, folding her fingers around it.

“I’m going to walk,” she said. “I’m going down to the cove. There’s the fish which light up when the sun goes down. They’re beautiful.”    

“No, that will have to wait,” Pietro says. “Vision is back from the mainland, he has news for us.”

“I don’t care for any of Vision’s news,” Wanda sighed. “It’s all politics.”     

A wave rolled in over their feet, the scarlet fabric of her dress now dark with water all the way up to her ankles. Pietro made a sympathetic noise and gently took her head in his hands. “Come. Your fish and your shells will still be here another day.”

She nodded, and Pietro pressed a kiss to her forehead, before tugging her back up the beach. She followed him into the small yet luxurious house they called home. It was a sprawling building of low ceilinged rooms and courtyards filled with flowers, fountains that filled the air with continual sound. Wanda loved it. It was so peaceful; no-one ever bothered them here and she could almost believe that the rest of the world didn’t matter.

At the head of the table sat Vision, her closest friend and advisor. He was a strange man, covered in red ink from his head to his toes, his pale yellow eyes always tracking, always considering. He had a deep knowledge and considerable skill with magic, Wanda knew, but he kept it mostly to himself. Next to him sat Lady Sif, her personal bodyguard. A Lady of Winterfell, she had fled the Seven Kingdoms when Thor had been banished. Though maybe fled was the wrong word; Lady Sif did not flee from anything. She had walked away with her head held high and vengeance simmering in her blood. The final addition to their party was Scott; a thief come sellsword who was wanted in Westeros and had smartly left instead of being sent to the Wall for his thieving. He was supposedly Pietro’s bodyguard, but was quite open about the fact he could not and would not keep up with Pietro, and if Pietro got himself killed wandering away from Scott, then that was his own fault.

Sif was already eating; social convention meant little to her when she was hungry. Or when she was annoyed or had a point to make, come to think of it. Scott was drinking, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the arm of Pietro’s. Vision was the only one sitting with an ounce of decorum, eyes on Wanda as she and Pietro took their seats.

“We have much to discuss,” he said gravely.

“We decided to skip the small talk,” Scott said with a grimace, though his eyes were sparking with mischief. “Sorry.”

“When has Vision ever indulged small talk?” Pietro asked, reaching for Scott’s goblet of wine.

“Nu-uh,” Scott said. “Grow some, and then you can drink with the men.”

Pietro scowled. “Fine morals for a sell-sword.”

Scott just shrugged. “Always said I’d never let my daughter drink until she was of age,” he said. “And seeing as she’s in Westeros, and I’m stuck here watching you, you’ll have to deal with it.”

That at least diverted Pietro; he could be as obnoxious as he chose to Scott most of the time, but even he didn’t dare to cross the line of making light of Scott’s daughter, the one he would in all likeliness never see again.

“What news, Vision?” Sif asked, seamlessly moving the conversation back to where it needed to be.  

“Unrest in King’s Landing,” Vision said.

Wanda frowned, tucking her feet up onto the chair, wrapping her arms around her knees. “There is always unrest in King’s Landing.”

“Yes, that’s not news,” Pietro said, glancing at her with a frown.

“More unrest than usual,” Vision said. “The Dreadfort continues to grow in power, and the King continues to do nothing about it. The heir to the throne seems utterly disinterested in his title, and still hasn’t attended any of the small council meetings.”

Sif looked at Scott, who just shrugged expansively.

“The Small Council is afraid. And they are more afraid because they have found out that the children of the Metal King are alive.”

Wanda felt her stomach swoop, a sickening drop. Sif reached out and laid a hand on her knee, and Wanda clutched it tightly.

“How?” Pietro asked, sounding angry. Always angry, her brother. He’d rather be angry than afraid.

“I don’t know,” Vision said calmly. “I only know that they know you are alive and they perceive you as a threat.”

“We are not a threat,” Wanda said. “We have been here for thirteen years. We’ve never once tried to go back.”

Not that she would want to, she thought. All she remembered from King’s Landing was the heat and the smell and the tall stone walls. The screaming, the clash of swords, the panic as she was bundled up in a cloak and smuggled out of the keep, feet not even touching the floor. She still had nightmares about the dark and the smell of blood and the terrible rocking of the boat.

“We should.”

She looked up sharply at Pietro. He was already looking at her, jaw clenched and arms folded across his chest.

“We should,” he repeated. “It is where we belong. We don’t belong here, out in nowhere.”

“You’d rather go back to a place where there’s a price on all of our heads?” Scott asked in disbelief. “I mean, I want to go back but I’m not sure I want to die for it.”

“We’re safe here,” Wanda said. “We have peace.”

“We have nothing.”

“Peace is not nothing!”

A flash of red swept across the table; all the plates and bowls lifted and crashed back down onto the table. Water flooded the polished wood, a goblet went crashing to the floor. Wanda drew in a sharp breath and quickly reined herself in; she’d unthinkingly leant forwards, her hands grasping the arms of the chair. She shrank back, breathing out unsteadily.

“See? You are not nothing,” Pietro shot back. “You are more powerful than anyone in Westeros. And we are the rightful heirs to the throne. Stark stole that from us.”

“How long have you been thinking this?” Wanda asked him. Her fingers were still trembling. “You’ve never said.”

“He has,” Scott said, sounding resigned as he mopped up the remnants of his wine. “Loudly, repeatedly and often. I just made him promise not to speak to you about it, because it’s dull and boring and pointless.”

Wanda felt oddly betrayed. Pietro wouldn’t meet her eyes, just scowled down at the table. “It is not pointless,” he muttered.

“Vision. What do you think?” Sif asked.

“I think it is a question of what is easy, and what is right,” Vision said slowly. “The Seven Kingdoms are suffering. Howard Stark is not leading. People are dying.”

“Vision!” Wanda broke in, appalled. “No.”

“Not if you are not ready,” Vision said quietly, pale eyes fixed on hers. “And not if we don’t think the Seven Kingdoms is ready for her power. They detest Stark. They do not deserve a ruler they fear.”

“Fine, so we stay here and rot,” Pietro said, and pushed up from the table, storming out.

“Pietro!” Scott yelled. “The gods can have him, I swear.”

Regardless of his words, he climbed from the table and picked up his sword, following Pietro out into the fading light, grumbling the whole way. Wanda watched him go, still feeling shaken.  

“Finding a compromise between what is right and what is easy can take a lot of sacrifice,” Vision said to her, looking concerned. “Do not let Pietro’s wants push you.”

“What do you think is right?”

Infuriatingly, Vision didn’t give her a straight answer. “I’m here to advise you, not to tell you what to do.”

“But, it’s - it’s safe here, it’s beautiful. What more could we want?” she asked.

Vision just looked at her, kindly and with no small amount of pity. “A thing isn’t beautiful because it lasts.”

Wanda had heard enough. She got up from the table and walked away, head spinning. She had no idea where Pietro had gone but for once she didn’t care. She ended up running down the path away from the house and across the beach, all the way down to the shoreline. By now the sun was all but gone and the sea looked dark and almost unfriendly.

She didn't want to go back to Westeros. She wanted to stay here where it was peaceful, away from the politics of the capital. Nevermind what Pietro wanted - he was just being selfish, wanting something different because he couldn’t deal with being alone. Scott was right; she didn’t want to die, either.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Heart leaping into her throat, Wanda span around at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. It was a woman with deep red hair, wearing an outfit of complete black. Her hands were behind her back and she was standing neutrally, calmly, head cocked slightly to the side.

“Who are you?” Wanda asked. She glanced to the house, praying Sif could see her. Sif was twice the size of this woman, would easily beat her in a fight if it came to it.

“I’ve been sent to kill you,” the woman said, and Wanda had a moment of heady disorientation and panic before the woman added, “but I’m not going to.”

“I’ll scream,” Wanda said, taking a step back.

“By all means, do it if you’ll feel better with your bodyguard here,” the woman said, and looked at her curiously. “I’m a little confused as to why you would, though. You could stop me yourself if you wanted.”

Wanda swallowed hard. She could feel tears threatening in her eyes, panic still very close and making her lungs feel too tight.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

The woman smiled. “Wanda Maximoff. First daughter of the Metal King, the Scarlet Princess, the bearer of the Red Light and Honorary heir to the Iron Throne,” the woman said. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.”

“I’m not that anymore,” Wanda said. “Stark is the King. His son is the heir to the throne.”

“Maybe you could change that,” the woman said easily.

Wanda stared at her, utterly flabbergasted. “You-”

She was cut off by a shout of her name, and then Sif was running full pelt across the sand towards her, sword in hand. Sif had barely reached her when there was a sound like a thunderclap and then a shimmering golden veil appeared in midair, between Wanda and the stranger. Gasping, Wanda turned around to see Vision standing further up the beach with his hands held out, his whole form surrounded by the same rippling golden light. He looked terrifying, like something from a completely different world.

“Vision, don’t!” Wanda shouted, her hair whipping across her face. She grabbed hold of Sif’s arm, standing half behind her. “ _Vision!_ ”

Without thinking, she threw her free hand up; a wave of scarlet magic burst forth and shattered the golden shield, leaving the beach empty of light.

“A little warning,” Sif said breathlessly to Wanda.

“I’m sorry,” Wanda said, clutching hold of Sif and fighting back tears. “Oh gods, I didn’t mean to.”

“Who are you?” Vision asked the woman. His voice was calm but his eyes betrayed his anger.

“I am no-one,” the woman said. “But maybe you can call me Natasha.”

“The faceless are not welcome here,” Vision said, and with his addition the words _I am no-one_ settled into Wanda’s mind with a new clarity; this woman was an assassin. A paid assassin, sent here by someone to kill her.

“Who sent you?” she asked suddenly.

The woman - Natasha - met her eyes. “The Master of Spies and the King,” she said quietly. “You were seen by a merchant vessel, and news travelled back to the mainland. He paid me to come and kill you and your brother.”

“Why do you speak of your mission?” Sif asked angrily. “I know your kind. You kill and you vanish.”

“Because I owe someone a debt, and to fulfill that debt I have to betray my vows to the faceless and instead help you,” Natasha said.

“Who?” Sif asked.

“Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” Natasha shrugged. “He’s an old friend.”

“An old friend does not explain why you’re suddenly turning your back on your life as an assassin,” Sif said angrily. “They will come for you if you renounce that.”

“They will,” Natasha said quietly. “But that’s okay.”

It was the way she said it that made Wanda think again. It was sad, accepting. Almost wistful. She seemed oddly vulnerable, and Wanda thought that maybe if Natasha could be brave enough to turn her back on her own life, then maybe-

No. She couldn’t.

From further down the beach, she heard a furious shout. She turned to see Pietro sprinting towards her, Scott lagging behind him with sword in hand. Pietro didn’t even pause, just ran straight up to her, putting himself between Wanda and Natasha.

“Who is this?” he asked, panting. “I heard the magic - what is happening?”

“Pietro, calm down,” Wanda said. “It’s okay.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sif remarked. She was still holding her sword in hand, knees bent like she were about to spring into action. Completely unlike Natasha’s calm, relaxed pose, though Wanda did not doubt that that could change very quickly.

“I am one of the faceless,” Natasha said, and Pietro took a step back. “And I am here to help.”

“Alright, what the fuck is going on?” Scott said as he finally joined them. “Pietro, I swear to the gods-”

“There is an assassin here,” Pietro said, and Scott promptly stopped berating Pietro and turned his blade towards Natasha.

“I was an assassin, yes. But I’m not here to hurt anyone. I don’t have any weapons,” Natasha said after a while, her voice barely audible over the surf. “You can check if you like.”

Sif nodded and stepped forwards, but Wanda held out her hand to stop her. “I can,” she said. She took a hesitant step forwards, and then another and another, feet sinking into the soft sand. Natasha watched her carefully, meeting her eyes without fear.

Wanda swallowed hard and raised her hands. It took a look of concentration and effort, but she managed to get her magic moving, the scarlet strands reaching out and enveloping Natasha, looking for any deception or pain. Pain she did feel, but it was a deep emotional pain rather than the sharp edge of a weapon. It felt like Natasha had a bruise on her soul, something dull and aching that would take a long time to fix.

Blinking back her tears, Wanda dropped her hands. “I believe you,” she said, and Natasha inclined her chin in acknowledgment, maybe even thanks. “But I want to know what the Lord Commander of the night’s watch has to do with me. Why does you owing him a debt mean you come here?”

“What?” Pietro asked. “You owe a debt to the Night’s Watch? Then why aren’t you there?”

“Because it was the Commander of the Night’s Watch who saved your life,” Natasha said. “Clint Barton was the one who smuggled you out of King’s Landing, and was sent to the Wall for it.”

It was Sif who reacted first, disbelieving. “Barton? Surely not.”

“He wasn't always Lord Commander, or even a man of the Night’s Watch,” Natasha said. “When I knew him he was an entertainer in King's Landing. A favourite of the royal court. He was inside the keep when the Starks came for the throne, and he came straight for you both.”

“The man with the bow and arrow,” Pietro said slowly, tone speaking clearly of memory dredged from forgotten places. “He used to make impossible shots.”

“He used to make me laugh,” Wanda said, brow furrowed as she remembered. “He would bring sweets from the lower town.”

Natasha’s mouth curves in a sad smile. “That’s him,” she said. “He took you out of the Red Keep and brought you here. Only the gods know why Stark exiled him instead of executing him.”

“Stark has no honour,” Pietro said hotly. “He would not have spared him.”

“Well, he did,” Natasha said. “And he is at the Wall, leading the Night’s Watch. So I am here to help protect what he gave his life for.”

Wanda felt a little dizzy. “You - we have protection,” she began, gesturing to Scott and Sif. “We’re safe here.”

Natasha’s smile turned sad. “I’m afraid you aren’t any longer. They are coming for you.”

“Who?” Vision said sharply. He moved for the first time, stepping closer to them so he could rest a hand on Wanda’s shoulder.

“I don’t know, exactly,” Natasha said calmly, her pale eyes shifting to Vision. “But they will come.”

“Vision?”

Vision sighed. “I knew they would come,” he said. “I told you that they think you are a threat. There are good men in King’s Landing, but I fear that Stark is no longer in control of himself nor his kingdom.”

“Okay, can I just-” Scott said, throwing up a hand and looking at Natasha in confusion. “You aren't the people that Vision warned us about?”

“No,” Natasha said. “Though if it helps, the people that you have been warned about are quite afraid of me.”

“Well then I say we keep her,” Scott said, raising a hand. “Are we voting?”

“We can’t just keep her, she is not a pet!” Pietro exclaimed, looking distrustfully at Natasha. “I don’t believe her.”

Wanda let her magic reach out again, soft and exploratory. Natasha seemed to know she was doing it, standing still and even turning her face towards Wanda to make it easier.

“I do,” Wanda said, he heart thumping in her chest. “She stays.”

She surprised herself with the conviction in her voice. She was even more surprised by the fact that everyone seemed to listen. Even Vision nodded, though he continued to watch Natasha intently.

“Thank you,” Natasha said quietly.

Wanda nodded, not quite strong enough to smile. “Don’t make me regret it,” she said, and Natasha’s mouth curved.

“I won't,” she said, and Wanda felt herself believe that even without using her magic to help.

 

**King’s Landing**

“Alright, time to go,” a loud voice called, accompanied by the heavy clink of armoured feet walking across the floor of the workshop. “Your horse awaits, get up.”

Tony ignored the voice, squinting up at the mechanism in front of him. He frowned and threw out a hand, groping for the wrench that he knew was somewhere by his hip. No, that was a screwdriver, that a hammer. Curse the gods - where had he left it?

“Is my wrench out there?” he asked. “Rhodey, find my wrench.”

Rhodey did not pass him his wrench. In fact, Rhodey proved himself to be less than helpful by wrapping a hand around Tony’s ankle and pulling him out from underneath his machine, the wheeled wooden board he was lying upon making the job far too easy.

“Traitor,” Tony said, though he did spot his wrench lying about six inches away from where he’d been groping for it. Still lying on his back, he glared half-heartedly up at Rhodey before reaching up to take hold of the wooden beams on the base of the machine, making to pull himself back under.

“No you don’t, we’re going out,” Rhodey said, crouching down and holding his foot firmly captive. “Supplies, remember? More fancy metal from the mines?”

“I have enough metal, and I know full well you’re only trying to get me out while Howard is having a bad day,” Tony said. “Leave me alone, this machine isn’t going to fix itself.”

“I think you should go,” a voice called absently from the other side of the workshop, and Tony pulled a disgruntled face.

“Maester Banner, you are the biggest traitor.”

Bruce didn’t seem too upset by the proclamation. “I thought Steve was the biggest traitor?”

“He was when he was trying to make me go to the Small Council, and now it’s you,” Tony said, huffing and sitting up, wiping a grease-stained hand on the knee of his breeches. “This needs to be finished.”

“Says who?” Rhodey asked. “Your machine for...what is it for?”

Tony reached out and pushed at one of the upright oak beams. “It works like a trebuchet,” he explained. “Though instead of being wound by men, look, this switch will activate the mechanism to wind it using - well, basically what you understand as cogs and springs instead. Takes a quarter of the time and only one man has to stand by it. It would take six to wind on the same weight on a regular trebuchet.”

“I didn’t even know that was possible,” Rhodey said.

“Well, you’re not a genius,” Tony said, grinning at the flat look that Rhodey sent him. “Alright, you win. If I decide to go on your fake supply run, who is going to accompany me? Steve?”

Rhodey shook his head. “Kingsguard, not Princeguard,” he said, as if Tony hadn't heard Steve utter the same phrase a thousand times. “Pepper and I shall have to do, I’m afraid.”

“I can think of worse things,” Tony said with a shrug. He tossed the wrench back onto his workbench, leaving the rest of his tools to come back to later. “Bruce, leave my things alone.”

“I would not dream of touching your things,” Bruce said vaguely, peering through a magnifying lens at some disgusting looking sample that lay oozing on a fine sheet of glass. “Have fun. Eat something.”

Tony felt a swell of exasperated fondness, even as he dipped his chin and followed Rhodey out of the workshop and into the sun. King’s Landing weren’t all bad, he supposed. He had his friends, a luxury that he knew to be grateful for. His Father often commented on the fact that Tony was a Prince, the heir to the Throne, someone who should view the others as his subjects and not his friends. It was downright hypocritical of him, seeing as Tony knew that Howard had his own network of friends - well, people whose company he enjoyed. He didn’t think his father cared enough about anyone else to have them named as true friends.

“You know, for all the time you spend harassing Steve about his habit of brooding, you are pretty partial to it yourself,” Rhodey said, turning his face up into the sun as if basking.

“If they ran brooding as a tournament event, Steve would win,” Tony replied. “I caught him at that damn tree of his yesterday, talking to ghosts again.”

“Steve has a lot on his shoulders,” Rhodey said, and Tony had to bite his tongue to not reply with a comment about just how much Steve had to bear - telling anyone about their illicit affair was not something he had liberty to do, no matter how much he trusted Rhodey. It ached sometimes, the need to tell, but he was not prepared to give up Steve. He’d stay silent for a thousand years just to ensure he could carry on having Steve in his life and his bed.

“Don’t we all,” he finally opted for saying as they crossed the royal courtyard, heading towards the stables. He could hear the hounds baying in their kennels as they walked past, obviously yearning to be out in the sun, too. “Where is Steve? With Howard?”

Rhodey nodded, mouth set in disapproval. “Do not be surprised if we return to news that Steve has been reprimanded. He is...well. If you’d bother to come to the meetings, you’d know.”

Tony groaned, nodding at the guard and pushing the stable door open. The horses all shifted, as restless as the dogs nearby. “Not you, too. Why would I bother coming to the meetings when I have you and Steve to tell me everything anyway?”

Rhodey didn’t reply; he wasn't like Steve, wouldn’t tell Tony that he should go and make his voice heard. He’d just think it so obviously and loudly that he might as well be shouting.

“Hello, friend,” Tony called as he walked up to his horse - a powerful grey mare named Eisen. She was easily the fastest horse in King’s Landing and despite his protests about being made to leave his workshop and go outside, Tony loved to ride her. Hurtling across the moors and fields and beaches at breakneck speed, leaving everyone else trailing behind him never failed to make Tony laugh with sheer giddy joy. Steve always said his love for fast riding was his reckless nature being appeased, which Tony supposed was right. However, Steve rode a huge white stallion that most were too nervous to go near, such was its habit of rearing and kicking. Considering that - and his habit of riding straight at danger - Steve was hardly in a place to judge.

“You’re good, aren’t you, beautiful,” Tony murmured to Eisen as he reached for her reins, rubbing her velvety nose with the palm of his hand. “Ready for a run?”

Soon enough both man and horse were suitably dressed, and Rhodey and Tony were clattering their way across the courtyard. Pepper met them halfway, riding her own good-tempered bay mare and smiling tiredly at Tony. She’d been up half the night with the King, Tony knew, and he was about to apologise to her for the fact she’d had to do so when out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of white, red and blue.

Steve. Walking side by side with the King and looking quietly annoyed. Howard was chattering away, goblet in hand and seemed utterly unheeding of Steve’s expression. Behind them were the similar blue cloaks of Dugan and Morita, and then Obadiah, who had already seen Tony and had his hand raised in greeting.

Tony urged Eisen forwards, and Howard and Steve both looked up at the sound of approaching hooves. Steve’s brows lifted and his face seemed to light up as he saw Tony, a soft smile that he quickly hid and replaced with an altogether more neutral look. In contrast, Howard looked less pleased to see him; he scowled, face darkening like a brewing storm.

“What’re you doing?” he called loudly. “Gods, Tony. You look a state.”

“Going to the mines,” Tony said, and Howard made a noise of disgust.

“Get inside and get cleaned up, and then answer your damn letters,” Howard said. “Peggy says she’s waiting on you. So is Sharon.”

Tony didn’t miss the twitch of Steve’s eye when Sharon’s name was mentioned, nor the way he pressed his mouth together hard enough to make his lips go white. Tony wanted very badly to laugh, or roll his eyes. It had been years and years since Steve and Sharon had failed their attempt at falling in love, but Steve still didn’t like to be reminded of it. Funnier still was that Tony knew full well that Sharon didn’t care one bit. However, seeing as Howard had all but decided that as respective heirs to King’s Landing and Highgarden, Tony and Sharon were to be married, Steve was undoubtedly victim to a cruel streak of jealousy.

“I will,” Tony said, trying to catch Steve’s eye. It was impossible; Steve was resolutely looking at Eisen instead of Tony, the stubborn ass.  

“Now,” Howard replied, reaching out to push away Eisen’s curiously nuzzling nose. She snorted indignantly at the rebuttal and stepped away, her hooves sharp on the cobbled ground.

“Let the boy ride, Howard,” Obadiah said. “The Gods only know you’re never up to date on your letters.”

Tony grinned at Obadiah, who nodded quietly at him from behind Howard’s back. For his part, Howard didn’t seem to want to argue any more, wearily throwing up a hand at Tony, dismissive.

“Get out, then,” he said. “Before someone sees you covered in grease and dressed like a servant. Steve, come with me, I need to visit Banner before I do much else.”

 _Diagnosis, drunk,_ Tony thought to himself as Howard walked away, Steve following like a white and blue shadow. He looked back over his shoulder as he went, catching Tony’s eye in a moment that seemed to last forever, before looking away, frown already back in place.

“Ignore him,” Obadiah said, watching as Dugan and Morita followed Steve, before reaching out to pet Eisen. She wasn't having any of his pleasantries though and snorted angrily, tossing her head. Obadiah just shrugged, lowering his hand. “He has had a long night.”

“A long night of drinking and fucking the maidservants,” Tony said, and bit back a yelp as Rhodey kicked him, hard.

“Tony,” Obadiah said reproachfully. “That’s no way-”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Tony said, suddenly not wanting to hear how he should respect his father and king. He was tired of respecting a man who had done nothing in the past ten years to warrant it. He decided to change the subject and make a hasty exit. “We’re going to the mines anyway, we’ll be back in a day or two.”

“Don’t linger, and no public taverns,” Obadiah said, eyes twinkling. “Stay with Wilson if you have to stay a night. And be safe.”

“I will,” Tony promised. “See you soon.”

He was about to turn Eisen around and make his way out of the courtyard when Obadiah made a sudden movement, a wordless exclamation. “Here,” he said, tucking his hand inside his jacket and pulling out a neatly sealed scroll. “I forgot. This raven came in - it’s for Steve. Can you give it to him?”

Rhodey and Pepper exchanged a look, and Tony frowned. “I’m leaving the keep in less than a minute. You’ll see him before me.”

Obadiah shook his head. “I’m going as an envoy to the Dreadfort, and I must prepare,” he said. “You can quickly go and find Steve, surely?”

Tony sighed and held his hand out, taking the scroll. He was immediately curious; Steve rarely received correspondence of any sorts since he’d stopped writing to Sharon. Maybe that was what it was, another attempt of Sharon’s to reconnect with Steve? She would be lucky, Tony thought. For as stubborn as she was said to be, he would bet his kingdom that Steve was doubly do.

“Be safe,” Obadiah said, winking at Tony before waving in farewell. He turned away and was soon out of sight.

“So, want me to wait with Eisen while you go and find Steve?” Rhodey asked, his voice seeming a million miles away.

“I can go, he won’t have gotten far,” Pepper offered, holding her hand out to Tony.

“Hmm?” Tony asked, belatedly glancing at Rhodey and then at the scroll in his hand. He shook his head and tucked the scroll into the front of his shirt. “Oh, no. It’s okay. I can give it to him later.”

“Of course you’ll give it to him later,” Rhodey said, utterly straight-faced. As he clicked his tongue and turned his horse around, Tony caught the faintest edge of a smirk exchanged between Rhodey and Pepper. It took him a moment for it to fall into place, but when it did he literally felt his jaw fall open in shock.

“I think you’ve taken one too many blows to the head in melee training” he said, urging Eisen on to catch up to Rhodey.

“Oh please, don’t insult our intelligence,” Rhodey said over his shoulder. “It’s not exactly hard to work out. Pepper tells me you were out of your room again last night.”

Curse Rhodey, Pepper and the gods, Tony thought. He dug his heels into Eisen’s sides, made her move ahead and then blocked Rhodey’s path, making his horse toss her head irritably. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“Tony, we know,” Pepper said with a sigh. “Don’t be all...you about it.”

“I’ll have you discharged,” Tony said irritably. “Dishonorably.”

“You can’t discharge us, only Howard or Steve can discharge us,” Rhodey said. “Now, can we go on pretending we know nothing about it? If I think about it too much I get a headache.”

“Rude,” Tony said.

“I have nothing against you or Steve, or you and Steve,” Rhodey said easily. “But the fallout that will inevitably happen if Howard were to find out? Now that’s something I’d rather avoid. So, I know nothing, Pepper knows nothing and you are going to carry on being careful so that nobody knows anything.”

“Loud and clear, General,” Tony said, and turned Eisen so Rhodey's path was clear. He took the lead and Tony and Pepper fell in behind, the horses’ hooves clopping loudly as they left the keep.

He glanced over at Pepper, her red hair like a torch in the sun. “Do you have anything against it?”

“He makes you happy,” Pepper said, still looking ahead. “I wish he didn’t, because he’ll be executed if Howard finds out he’s broken his oath.”

“The penalty is banishment,” Tony replied with a frown. He knew that for fact; he’d checked himself after the first night he had spent with Steve.

“He will be executed if Howard finds out he’s broken his oath with _you_ ,” Pepper said, and finally looked his way. She looked sad, but accepting. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Tony.”

Tony pressed his lips together, hard. “So do I,” he said, and then urged Eisen on to take the lead.

 

* * *

 

Gasping, Tony let out a breathless laugh, pulling Eisen up and leaning back as she predictably reared at the sudden stop. The wind tugged at his hair and clothes, his eyes watering as he looked out across the cliffs, the sea restlessly dancing back and forth three hundred feet below.

 _And still only a third of the height of the Wall,_ Tony thought to himself, panting. He gently tugged on the reins to keep Eisen in place, soothing her with a hand on her neck. He looked around and saw Rhodey and Pepper at least a mile back, visible on the far side of the valley. He couldn’t help but grin; Rhodey tried to keep up with him every time and never managed it.

Eisen snorted, clearly not happy with being so close to the cliff edge. “I’ll take you to the Wall one day, show you what high really is,” Tony said. He desperately wanted to visit the Wall; it was an utter miracle of engineering and he wanted to see it up close. Howard had yet to grant him the time to undertake such a journey, but in truth that would not hold him back if he truly wanted to go. He would easily tell Bruce or Rhodey that it was the cold that put him off. It was partly true, but it were the lingering ghosts that belonged to Steve that truly stopped him. Tony knew that Steve had loved Bucky Barnes like a brother, and his memory weighed Steve down so heavily some days that it seemed he could barely stand.

Tony could still recall the day that Bucky Barnes had been sent to the Wall. Even as heir to the Iron Throne, he didn’t know what transgression Barnes had committed to be sent away, he just remembered seeing him in chains, being locked into the back of a wagon and smiling weakly at Steve. Steve, who had been standing there in his soldier’s uniform, captains insignia on his shoulder and shield in hand. He’d been so young and so angry, Tony remembered. The look on Steve’s face as Bucky had been sent away - helpless and furious and scared and alone.

And then Steve had been named the new general of the army not four days later, the youngest man ever to be given such an honour. Tony had wanted him from the moment he’d seen him promoted; it had been like a punch to the gut, a breathless realisation as Steve had arisen as Ser Rogers, jaw clenched and loss burning through the proud set of his shoulders.  

And what Tony Stark wanted, he normally got. No matter that getting Steve had taken seven years and the breaking of several oaths to accomplish.

Eisen stamped impatiently, drawing Tony out of his reverie. He blinked away his thoughts of Steve and let Eisen lead him away from the cliff, back towards the valley path. “Let’s go, girl,” he said, seeing that Rhodey and Pepper were fast gaining. “Let’s fly.”

She did so willingly; they galloped along the crest of the valley, heading further north and further away from King’s landing. The great lakes were an hour’s ride to the east, the mines another hour beyond that, but Tony pushed north, losing himself in the exhilaration of speed, nothing but the sound of Eisen’s hooves and his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.  

He finally stopped some ten miles on, slowing Eisen to a trot for the final leg of their journey. The sun beat down upon them, warming his skin even through the layers of clothes he were wearing. He let Eisen lead them over to a stream and dismounted as she ducked her head eagerly to drink, swishing her tail. Tony reached into the saddlebag for his own drink, gratefully downing several mouthfuls of wine.

“You know, you’re a long way from your throne out here.”

Tony turned his head, wiping his mouth and grinning as he saw none other than Sam Wilson standing there behind him, his arms folded across his chest. The ever-present falcon that accompanied Sam sat on his shoulder, head turned to fix Tony with an unblinking yellow stare.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Tony said. “I’ve been told to stay the night with you.”

“Oh have you now?” Sam asked good naturedly. “I left King’s Landing to get away from all you royal types, you know. There’s no-one to boss me around out here and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“I have wine?” Tony said, and offered the skin to Sam.

“Now you’re talking,” Sam said, smiling broadly back and walking closer. He accepted the offered drink, taking a large swallow before passing it back. “I guess you can stay. Speaking of people who boss me around, is Ser Rogers around here with you?”

“No, just General Rhodes and Lady Potts,” Tony said.

Sam nodded, disappointed but understanding. “He’s gotten less fun now he’s Kingsguard,” he commented, holding his hand out as Eisen wandered over, whinnying happily. “Even less fun than he was when he was General.”

“He’s a serious soul,” Tony shrugged, drinking some more wine.

“Does he still spend hours talking to Bucky at that damn tree of his?”

Tony nodded. “Never gets an answer back though. Maybe in ten years he’ll give up.”

Sam snorted, disbelieving. “I wouldn’t bet on it,” he said, rubbing his hand over Eisen’s nose. The hawk on his shoulder screeched, flapping her wings and cuffing Sam on the ear, making him wince. “Now don’t get jealous,” he said reprovingly. “You’re still my best girl, Redwing.”

“You and the bird, what is with you and the bird,” Tony said, waving his hand in front of his face to try and get rid of the midges from the stream that had taken an interest in him. “You’re as bad as - what was the name of that jester who used to feed the hawks in the Red Keep? The one with the bow and arrow? Every time we visited on state business he was there, being obnoxious to Magneto and shooting things out of people’s hands.”

“Oh man, that was years ago,” Sam said. “I barely remember anything from before the revolution, just fighting Magento’s army. Did he die?”

“No, sent to the Wall,” Tony said absently.  “He’s Lord Commander now. Howard nearly had a fit when he found out the news.”

“Barton,” Sam said immediately. “If you’d led with Lord Commander of the Night’s watch, I’d have known who you were speaking of. Gods, he was the entertainer with the bow and arrow? I never would have matched them up as the same person.”

“One and the same,” Tony nodded. “I remember that he gave Howard the finger as he was carted away. I’m still not sure how Howard let him live after that one.”

“There’s a fine line between stupidity and courage,” Sam said, and then pointed over Tony’s shoulder. “There’s your entourage.”

Tony turned and waved as Pepper and Rhodey finally arrived, cantering up and looking windswept but happy.

“Wilson! Good to see you!” Rhodey called.

“And you,” Sam said, squinting in the sun. “You’re looking good.”

“As are you,” Pepper said, smiling warmly at Sam. “Leaving King’s Landing has suited you well. I hope you don’t mind us intruding.”

“It’s fine,” Sam said. “Come on, let’s get to my humble home so we can eat and you can fill me in on everything I’ve missed. I don’t miss the army but I do miss the gossip.”

“Would you like a lift?” Pepper asked as Tony re-mounted Eisen.

Sam put a hand over his heart. “I would be honoured,” he said. “Not every day a man gets to ride with one of the most beautiful and fearsome ladies in the land.”

“Fearsome?” Pepper asked, wrinkling her nose as Sam hauled himself up behind her. The falcon - Redwing - took off into the sky as he did, soaring up above them to wheel around in lazy circles.

“I’ve seen what you can do with a sword,” Sam said. “And you put up with Steve on a daily basis. I both respect and fear your talents.”

“I put up with more than just Steve,” Pepper said with a slight smile over at Tony.

“I am insulted,” Tony said, finishing the last of his wine. “I am a delight.”

“Relax, I was talking about Howard,” Pepper said, clicking her tongue at her horse. “Mostly.”

“I am the heir to the throne, you should live in fear of me,” Tony called as she started to trot away, Sam turning back to grin at him. Rhodey was openly laughing, following them and gesturing for Tony to follow.

“Come on, Tony!”

“Terrible friends, all of them,” Tony said, but he was smiling as he patted Eisen’s neck and started to follow.

 

* * *

 

 

“So what news from our great and glorious capital?” Sam asked, setting a huge pot of stew in the centre of the table, grunting with the effort of swinging it up. Tony’s mouth watered as the smell of spices and meat filled the air; he’d not eaten since breakfast and was famished.

“Where would you like us to start?” Pepper said. “Well, there have been riots over the past quarter over the closing of the Crystal Grove. Only a moon ago the watch had to be strengthened to stop the protests.”

“What about the Sept of Magda? Was that re-opened?”

Rhodey shook his head, leaning forwards and resting his elbows on the edge of the oak table. He looked more relaxed than Tony had seen in a long while; his sword was resting by the wall and his cloak was unclipped and draped over the bench next to him. “No. Any churches, Septs or groves with links to Mad King or the Maximoffs were shut down.”

“And not replaced?” Sam asked in disbelief as he handed out bowls and spoons. “Does Stark want a full religious rebellion on his hands?”

“He doesn’t care,” Tony said simply. “To him, religion means nothing.”

“It means something to his people,” Sam said. “He can’t just take that away from them.”

“He can, and he has,” Tony said wearily. “I thought you two had dragged me out here to get me away from Howard?”

They fell silent, and Tony sighed. He knew the shortcomings of his father more than anyone, but it was complicated. He was the king, and despite everything he was still Tony’s father. A soft trill drew his attention; Redwing swooped in through the open stable-style door, a dead rat in her talons. She settled on the table but Sam pointed a spoon at her, looking stern.

“We’ve got guests, take your prize somewhere else.”

She clicked her beak at him but amazingly did as bid, taking off into the rafters and tucking into her rat up there. Tony watched her go, looking at the low wooden beams and thatching above his head. It was nothing like the buildings of the Red Keep, but it felt more homey here than any place, save for maybe his workshop.

“Help yourselves,” Sam said, placing a huge board of fresh bread next to the stew. “I know you’re used to being served but I’ve got to take dinner out to the others and honestly I don’t feel like serving today.”

Rhodey raised an eyebrow but Tony didn’t care about Sam’s attitude; he was just happy to be out of the Red Keep and also to be staying with one of Steve’s friends. Even though Steve’s duties meant he hadn’t seen Sam in over two years, it still felt special somehow. Right.

Sam took a second bowl of stew out the back, presumably for the men that were staying in the inn building that was attached to the house. It was a favourite with soldiers and mercenaries; Sam, having been a soldier himself, understood their needs for privacy and sometimes an ear to listen.

Tony, Pepper and Rhodey all dug into their meals, conversation falling into a lull as they ate. Tony was thinking of what would be happening back home, with no Obadiah to keep Howard in line and no Pepper and Rhodey to back Steve up. At least he still had Morita, Dugan and Falsworth to help him. He could imagine how tired Steve would look when he got back, how annoyed he would be with Howard. He couldn’t help but remember what Steve had said the last night they had spent together.

_“Do exactly as the King commands. I don’t know how much longer I can do that for.”_

Steve was a good man, Tony knew. And the more his father strayed from the path of good, the harder it was for Steve. And Steve was so very alone, most of the time. Bucky was dead, Sam had left, he no longer spoke to-

Tony made a noise in the back of his throat as he remembered. The letter. He put his spoon down and slipped his hand into his shirt, pulling the scroll out as Pepper and Rhodey looked at him inquiringly.

“Steve’s letter?” Rhodey asked. Sam returned from delivering the stew to the rest of the patrons and stood next to Tony, suddenly looking very serious

“Yes, I think it might be from Sharon,” Tony said, turning it over and inspecting the seal. He looked at it for half a second, and then went very still.

“Tony? Tony, what’s wrong?”

“It’s not from Sharon,” Tony said, still staring at the scroll. “It’s got the Seal of the Night’s Watch on it. It’s come from the Wall.”

“What?” Pepper asked, astonished. “Who at the Wall would be writing to Steve? He’s not had a raven come from the wall since Bucky died, and any official business would have gone to Howard or Obadiah.”

Tony blinked, the scroll somehow feeling heavier in his hand. The black seal seemed to stare back at him, the wax embossing of Castle Black rough under his thumb. .

“I’m going to open it.”

“Tony, no,” Pepper said, a slightly more forceful echo of her sentiments following from Rhodey. Sam looked equally unhappy about Tony’s proclamation, but obviously didn’t feel he was in any place to say no to the heir to the Iron Throne.

Tony ignored them all, cracking the seal with his thumb and standing up abruptly when Rhodey reached out to stop him. He unfurled the scroll, eyes drawn to the signature at the bottom before returning to the top to read.

“By the gods,” he said, going very, very still. “ _Shit._ ”

“What?” Pepper asked urgently. “Tony, what is it?”

“It’s from Barton,” Tony said, feeling his hand shaking.

“Lord Commander Barton?” Sam asked, amazed. “We were only talking about him earlier. What’s happened?”

“Bucky Barnes,” Tony said blankly, and looked up to meet their eyes, feeling like the bottom had just dropped out of his stomach. “They’ve found Bucky Barnes, and he’s alive.”

 

* * *

 

 

Tony didn’t sleep at all that night. He lay on his decidedly uncomfortable borrowed bed, staring at the rafters above his head and thinking about Bucky Barnes, somehow alive after five years missing beyond the Wall. No-one could blame the rest of the Night’s Watch for presuming that Barnes was dead - as far as Tony knew no man had ever survived being alone beyond the wall for five days, let alone five whole years.

By the gods, Steve was going to lose his mind. It was that that filled Tony with a strange sort of fear, wondering helplessly about how Steve would react to the news. He’d been devastated by news of Barnes’ death, for some reason still carrying around the guilt like it was somehow his fault.

It took him until dawn to realise that the fear came from the notion that Steve would leave. Tony knew he should simply be happy that Barnes was alive, but he had loved Steve from afar for seven long years, and he didn’t know what he would do if Steve left. He could see it so easily, Steve walking out of the Red Keep without looking back, mounting his horse and taking off for the wall without even saying goodbye.

The thought haunted him through their morning meal, and both Pepper and Rhodey commented on how quiet he was as they loaded up their horses. He shrugged them off, accounting his silence to the shock of the letter about Barnes; it was an easy enough lie to sell - they too were still stunned by the news.

“Have a safe journey,” Sam said as he passed Pepper her sword, Redwing swaying on his shoulder. “And just so you know, the northern trail is real busy right now. A lot of mercenaries heading up towards the Dreadfort.”

“The Dreadfort?” Rhodey asked, looking worried.

Tony glanced at him, feeling the same. “Obadiah was heading to the Dreadfort as an envoy,” he said. “He better have taken enough soldiers with him.”

“It might be nothing,” Sam said, petting Redwing’s feathers. “But I just know that something is going on. The Dreadfort must have come into some money to be attracting so many mercenaries. A man passed through here a week ago saying that he’d been offered a payment of ninety Stags if he went to serve for the Dreadfort.”

“Ninety Stags?” Tony said incredulously. “Where has Rumlow gotten that much silver from to pay every man ninety Stags?”

“I know he says that he's just claiming back land that used to belong to the Dreadfort,” Sam said slowly, like he didn’t want to say something that would get him into trouble. “But I get the feeling that he might be looking for more, you know?”

“Thank you, Sam,” Tony said, and he meant it. He saw the worried look that Pepper and Rhodey exchanged, and knew that Pepper must know at least some of what had been said about the Dreadfort by the small council.

“I hope your friend makes it there and back again in one piece,” Sam said, stepping back. “Tell the Star of the Seven Kingdoms that I said hello.”

“I will,” Tony promised, and with a wave of farewell he turned Eisen around and headed along the track that led from Sam’s Inn to the eastern pass. If they made good time they would be at the mines within an hour and a half. In truth, the mines had lost their appeal. All Tony wanted to do was get back and see Steve, to check he was still there. It was irrational, he knew; Howard wouldn’t let Steve out of his sight and an oath as a member of the Kingsguard was an oath for life - you couldn’t walk away.

 _Though he also swore an oath to remain chaste, and he broke that,_ a voice in Tony’s head said. _If he broke a oath for you he’d certainly break one for Bucky Barnes._

Tony forced the voice away, gritting his teeth and spurring Eisen on. It was a fruitless effort; the entire journey to the mines was spent with similar thoughts crashing around in his mind, and he was rude and sullen when they arrived. No-one seemed to think anything of it, though Pepper gave him a long, hard look at they remounted with their supplies, obviously displeased with him. He ignored her and once again headed off alone, using Eisen’s unmatched speed and the fact the other two were laden down with supplies to peel away and put some distance between them.

As he rode, every step taking him closer to home and closer to Steve, it became apparent to him that for the first time in a long time, he had absolutely no idea of what he should do.  
  
****


	3. Chapter 3

**King’s Landing**

Feeling weary and with an ache in her lower back from riding all morning, Pepper handed over her horse to one of the stable hands and headed straight to the workshop to try and find Tony. He’d been out of sorts since he’d read the letter from Lord Commander Barton, and a Tony in such a mood was a Tony who wasn’t thinking straight. Strictly, she was supposed to head straight to Steve and report on the events of their excursion, but she knew Tony needed her first.

“Pepper, wait,” Rhodey said, striding across the courtyard and swinging his Iron-grey cloak around his shoulders. “You may require reinforcements if he’s in this much of a mood.”

“Thank you,” Pepper said with a sigh. “I’m worried that he’s allowed himself to get in a very pretty mess over this.”

Rhodey didn’t reply, but his frown spoke volumes. Together they walked across the courtyard to the workshop, and sure enough as they entered they found Tony standing shoulder to shoulder with Bruce, peering over some fine glass instruments arranged on Bruce’s workbench.

“You could easily miss this entire stage of processing out,” Tony was saying impatiently, pointing to several of the instruments. “Look, just-”

“I haven't tested the quality of the elixir without this stage and I can’t spare any for testing now,” Bruce replied. “What should I do, give untested elixir to the people?”

“It’ll work,” Tony said adamantly. “And it will improve yields by at least half.”

“You’ve been back half an hour, can you at least wait until I’ve acclimatized to you before you start pulling holes in all my methods?”

Pepper smiled wanly, shutting the door behind her.  Tony and Bruce both looked up at the sound of creaking wood and hinges; Bruce smiled, however Tony looked away almost immediately, picking up a magnifying glass and fiddling with the handle.

“You need to check in with Steve, you know what he gets like when everything’s not in order.”

“Oh Tony, stop it,” Pepper said. “You know he won’t mind.”

Tony looked at her then, expression faintly challenging. “We are talking about the same person, yes?”

“Yes, Ser Rogers, Star of the Seven Kingdoms and bastard for not following the rules when he feels like it? That Ser Rogers?” Rhodey said pointedly. “Stop selling Steve short because you’re in a mood. He’s a commander but he’s a friend, too.”

Pepper saw how Tony’s mouth went tight at that, his shoulders hunching in. “He always follows the rules.”

“Oh yes,” Rhodey said. “Now tell me again about the conversation we had yesterday before we left.”

Tony turned away at that, walking over to the half-constructed machine on his side of the workshop. Pepper offered Bruce a tired and apologetic smile and he waved her off, evidently understanding.

“Well I’ve got work to do, machines of war won’t build themselves,” Tony said loudly. “I’ll see you later.”

“Tony,” Pepper said across him, knowing that the best way with Tony was to just get to the point. “Are you alright?”

Tony stopped for a moment, reaching up to rub his eyes. He seemed to battle with himself for a moment and then nodded jerkily. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I just need to...” He gestured at the machines and Pepper nodded. 

“I will be back later,” she said to him, walking over and turning him around, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He swallowed hard as she did and then abruptly looped his arms around her, embracing her briefly but tightly before letting go and stepping up to his construction.

Pepper held her hand out. “I’ll take the letter,” she said gently, and Tony stilled in place, his back to her and his hand resting against a heavy wooden strut above his head.

“I’ll take it later,” he said.

Pepper frowned, looking across at Rhodey, who was looking intently at Tony, frowning thoughtfully. “That’s Steve’s letter,” he said slowly. “Tony, I know you’re heir to the throne but you can’t just-”

“It’s not because I’m heir to the throne! It’s got nothing to do with that, by the gods,” Tony said, reaching for a wrench and immediately tossing it aside, searching for another. “I want to give it to him myself, is that too much to understand? Gods, you think I’d have murdered Barnes myself the way you two are going on at me, though thankfully a charge of murder would never stay considering he’s not really dead after all.”

“What?” Bruce chipped in, sounding shocked. “Barnes isn’t dead?  _ Steve’s _ Barnes?”

“Yes, we’re going to throw a banquet to celebrate later,” Tony said, and vanished beneath the machine.

Open mouthed, Bruce looked at Pepper for some sort of explanation but she didn’t have any to give. She nodded at him and then withdrew, Rhodey following her out into the warm sun. Across the courtyard, the smithy were inspecting the shoes of several of the royal horses, too far away to hear any of their conversation.

“He’s worried that Steve is going to go after Barnes,” Rhodey said, and she nodded in agreement.

“Why in the gods’ name can he just not admit that?”

“Admittance of fear is a weakness, and you know how Howard feels about weakness.” 

Pepper felt a familiar pang go through her heart. “Of course,” she said sadly. “You know, some days…”

She didn’t finish the thought. Speaking disrespectfully of the king were forbidden, the consequences especially severe considering her place within the Kingsguard. Rhodey sighed and nodded as if he knew what she wanted to say, resting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing, though she could not feel it through her armor.

“I must go and find Ser Rogers,” she said, trying to sound like she had nothing to worry about but her duty. “He will want relieving of the King, I am sure.”

Rhodes nodded. “And I have barracks to inspect, which means I will undoubtedly have some punishments to oversee,” he said, and departed with a wave.

Pepper watched him go, taking a moment to settle herself. She had come a long way from her lowly position as a servant in the Keep, and some days she could hardly believe where she had ended up, as one of the most respected positions in King’s Landing, her blue cloak a constant banner, proclaiming all she’d achieved. It did not come without its downfalls though, though she conceded that she would have been worrying about Tony whether she were simply fixing his clothes or guarding his back with a sword in hand.

Steve wasn't hard to find. He was in the Royal Chambers, standing by the door and gazing out of the window as Howard answered his correspondence. Howard was in a foul mood, cursing Obadiah's absence as well as the people who had had the audacity to write to him.

“And now Carter says she’s coming to stay,” Howard ranted as Pepper slid into the room, looking to Steve. “Curses, when was this sent? She’ll be here little over a week and nothing is ready, and I’ve got work to finish.” He made an annoyed sound and reached for his goblet. “I should have sent you as the fucking envoy to the Dreadfort, and then Obie could be dealing with this mess instead of me.”

_ It wouldn't be a mess if you’d answered your correspondence when you ought,  _ Pepper thought silently, coming to stand next to Steve. Her head barely came up to his shoulder, but he automatically tilted his head so she could murmur to him.

“Back safe and well,” she said. “Though Sam Wilson has news concerning the Dreadfort. May I have leave to find Fury?”

“I’d say that’s a job for two, wouldn’t you?” Steve murmured back before raising his voice. “Permission to go speak to Fury? Dugan and Morita will be available for anything you require.”

“Go,” Howard said with a wave of his goblet. “Find Hill and tell her that Carter will be here in eight or nine days, too. You know, the rooms and the welcoming feast and all that shit.”

“Sire,” Steve nodded, voice deliberately calm. He picked up his shield and left the room quickly, summoning Dugan and Morita who were there in an instant to take his place. Morita winked at Steve as they passed, and Steve smiled tiredly at him. 

“Fuck,” Steve muttered as soon as they were out of earshot, a slip in his composure that was rarely seen. “Just what I need.”

Pepper didn’t know what to say. Steve looked exhausted, and she knew he would be aggravated by Howard and the news that the Carters were coming to stay. It wasn't as if Steve could simply be given different duties to get him out of the way, either. He would be expected to be at Howard's side while he had such important guests in the Keep. 

“I’m sorry,” she offered, and Steve’s frown eased.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” he said. “But thank you. I just feel out of sorts and with Peggy and Sharon on the way, I don’t think that feeling’s going to go away. Oh gods, they’ll be talking about the betrothal, won’t they?”

Pepper carefully held her tongue; by rights Steve should not give a damn about Tony and Sharon's betrothal, but considering what she knew about Steve and Tony...it was just unexpected that Steve would let such words slip, considering what could be construed from him saying such things. Though if they were overheard it was more likely that people would think he still had feelings for  _ Sharon. _

And this was even without the news from the Wall. Pepper ached to tell him, but she knew it were not her place to do so. Also, she were honest enough to admit that she was a little afraid of how Steve might react. 

Still brooding, Steve made an irritated noise in the back of his throat; several maids skittered out of their path as they heard. Everyone in the Kingdom loved Steve, but his temper was an unfortunate vice that they tolerated but avoided at all costs. His temper was a thing of legend, really - there were many stories about it, and it had some basis in fact but very few people had actually ever witnessed it firsthand.

“You know, when I was younger I was utterly enamoured with Peggy,” he said suddenly. “The first time I saw her was when I was fourteen. Bucky and I sat on the wall of the Keep and watched the Highgarden train come in, and by gods she was beautiful.”

Pepper smiled. “Should the head of the Kingsguard be saying such things?”

Luckily, Steve just smiled too. “Don’t tease,” he said. “I wasn't Kingsguard back then.”

“I think everyone was enamoured with Lady Carter,” she said.

Steve laughed softly at that. “She was the one who saw me and Bucky fighting with Ser Hammer’s squire. A jumped up little rat, that one. Bucky beat seven shades out of him for knocking me down, and she saw it all. And instead of handing us over to the town’s watch, she marched me and Bucky up to the Royal Chambers - by our ears, mind you - and demanded to Magneto that me and Bucky be given positions as squires. She said it needed to be a fair fight.”

“What did Magneto say?”

“He just smiled,” Steve said, his own dimming, brows drawing in as he remembered. “One of those smiles that seems dangerous somehow...like a shark. Like he knew what would happen if we started on that path, and wanted to see it.”

Pepper shivered. “I can imagine it,” she said softly.

“Well, at any rate, he agreed,” Steve said. “And the rest is history.”

“And what about Sharon?” Pepper said.

Steve shot her a look like she’d overstepped, but didn’t reprimand her. “Well I obviously never ran off into the sunset with Peggy,” he said. “Childish dreamings. And then along came Sharon, and then she went, and I never want to talk about it ever again.”

Pepper knew she had been lucky to get even that much conversation about it from Steve. “Understood,” she said, and asked no more. 

Steve was quiet for the rest of the walk, nodding at a few people as they passed. They headed to the South tower, climbing the stairs to the top, where Fury’s rooms were located. As usual, the door was locked, and they had to wait for the sound of several bolts being drawn back before they were allowed admittance.

“Ser Rogers, Lady Potts,” Fury said, holding the door open. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“News from the road,” Steve said, gesturing Pepper forwards. He stood by the door with his arms folded, almost out of habit, Pepper thought.

“We stayed with Wilson for a night, Pepper said. “And on the road is much talk of mercenaries being sought by the Dreadfort. Talk of mercenaries being paid ninety Stags apiece for their service. General Rhodes knows. The King does not, as yet. I thought you maybe could find a way to see if there was any truth in what Wilson said.”

Fury listened to her, face impassive. He turned towards the window as she spoke, hands behind his back as he looked out over the courtyard below, his single eye tracking back and forth. Pepper wanted to say more but held herself back; she had learned through experience that it was better to simply state the facts and then wait.

“I already have received word that the Dreadfort has doubled the size of its army in the last twelve moons,” Fury said without looking at them. “Conscription, mostly. Though now I have proof they are taking in mercenaries, it seems that they want to do even better than that.”

“Are they going to make a move against us?” Steve asked bluntly. 

“Yes,” Fury replied, equally as frank.

“Rumlow is a fighter, but he’s not enough to lead a campaign against us,” Pepper said, glancing to Steve for affirmation of what she thought.

“I agree,” he said. “He’s a mad dog, nothing more.”

“Then the question we need to ask, is who is holding his leash?” Fury said, turning to face them and looking grave. “From what I know, he is not alone in the Dreadfort.”

“Who is with him?” Steve asked immediately. 

“That is for me to prove,” Fury said. “I have heard whispers, though whispers are not enough for me to start naming names.”

Steve actually rolled his eyes. Pepper didn’t know whether to laugh or be shocked. “Well, when you feel like sharing,” Steve said, and turned towards the door. “Potts. Let’s go.”

“Readying the place for the arrival of the Carters?” Fury called. “My my, Ser Rogers, you’ll certainly have you pick of ladies to reconnect with.”

Pepper hastily put herself between Steve and Fury. Thankfully, all that happened was Steve’s hand faltered on the door and his jaw clenched tight.

“Go fuck yourself,” he said calmly, and then he was gone, blue cloak snapping behind him as he took off down the spiral staircase.

“You have nothing to gain from baiting him,” she said to Fury, choosing not to apologise for Steve’s behaviour.

“On the contrary,” Fury said. “One can learn most about a man by how he reacts when he is baited.”

Pepper found herself abruptly tired of talking in tongues and left without another word. She already had too much to worry about, and did not need to add Fury’s riddles to her list of concerns.

Steve was long gone by the time she got to the bottom of the tower, so she headed back to the workshop to keep an eye on Tony. He didn’t deign to come out from under his contraption as she entered but she was well used used to him behaving as such. She drew up a seat next to Bruce and they chatted idly as he worked, and he allowed her to read one of the many books from his collection.

She were halfway through a page about the fall of the great beasts from the Last Age when Bruce gently slid a piece of paper over an intricate drawing of a dragon.

_ He is upset. He won’t talk about it.  _

She nodded, looking over at Tony’s feet - the only part of him which he could see. She heard him curse and then there was the loud banging of metal on metal.

We’ll be fine, she wanted to say, but she found the words would not come. 

* * *

 

 

The morning the Carters of Highgarden arrived, the city was in a dark mood. There had been yet another spate of protesting in the lower town and the crowd assembled waiting for an audience with the King was larger than Pepper had ever seen it. The staff were harried and overrun, trying to document names and grievances and create some sort of queue, but it seemed futile. Voices rose and tempers flared, and Rhodey had to dispatch a full company of soldiers to keep the peace.

It didn’t stop the large welcome breakfast from going ahead though; inside the Keep the voices of the crowd were far enough away to ignore, and breakfast was full of laughter and chatter. Despite his previous annoyance, Howard seemed genuinely pleased to see Peggy, and made several comments about how Sharon had only increased in beauty since he’d last seen her.

_ She is beautiful, _ Pepper thought idly as she stood behind Steve, shoulder to shoulder with Morita. Sharon sat beside her aunt in a deep blue, almost black dress, her blond hair falling in curls over her shoulders. She smiled little, but when she did it were sincere and made her seem much more approachable. Pepper felt a mild pang of envy as she stood there in her armour - it had been so long since she had been permitted to wear a dress, to braid her hair and to take pains with her appearance. 

As she watched, Lady Carter leaned over to whisper something to Sharon, and Sharon’s mouth curved in an almost smile. In contrast, Peggy’s eyes were dancing with mischief, making her look much younger than her true years. Her humour was infectious; Howard was also in good spirits, laughing and joking alongside her. The only person that seemed impervious to the high spirits was Tony. He sat between his father and Sharon but it was easy to see that he was preoccupied and resentful of the fact he’d been made to be there.

Pepper hoped that he could feel her glaring at the back of his head. By the gods, she wanted to go over there and shake him, Prince of Westeros or not. 

Even as she continued to watch him, he excused himself from the table, frowning. Steve immediately turned to Pepper and nodded, and she slipped away to follow Tony, as per protocol.

“Tony,” she called as they left the chamber. He carried on walking, head bowed.

“You’re meant to follow me like a shadow, protect me as you see fit,” Tony said. “Shadows don’t talk, Pepper.” 

“This shadow is going to wring your neck,” she snapped, and Tony huffed but stopped, leaning back against the wall and staring out over the courtyard garden. Pepper caught up with him, so angry that she caught herself wishing she could actually carry out her threats. “You still haven’t told him.”

“It’s none of your business,” Tony said. “I’ll tell him when I get a chance.”

“You were in his chambers last night,” Pepper snapped. “Tony, I love you dearly but you are being an ass. You’ve had over a week to tell him.”

“And I love you but I am Prince of Westeros which means I don’t have to listen to what you say.”

Tony turned on his heel and walked away through the garden, roughly pushing vines aside. Pepper watched him go, trembling with anger and cursing the fact she had to follow him. 

“You cannot just decide to act like a Prince when you feel like it,” she shouted after him, and then out of the corner of her eye she saw a figure stepping closer. Morita. Damn.

“I’ll go,” he said easily. “And I promise to not stab him, no matter how much we want to at the moment.”

Pepper didn’t laugh, but she accepted the offer with a nod. “He’ll be angry with you just for being a friend of Steve’s, probably.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Morita said, and bowed his head before taking off after Tony, his cloak of blue a bright contrast among the green of the garden. 

She ran her fingers over the edge of her sword, an unconscious gesture that was oddly comforting. She had rarely had cause to use her sword and knew full well that her place on the Kingsguard were mostly to be a calming presence for both Tony and the King, but still. She had her sword and would use it when circumstance dictated that she must. 

Noise caught her attention; the doors to the chamber were being pushed open and the party was leaving the room. Howard and Peggy led the way, followed by Sharon and a woman who was presumably her handmaiden. Sharon was looking serious, her eyes thoughtful and contemplative, seeming wise beyond her years. Behind the group came Steve, and it was only because Pepper knew him so well that she could sense that he’d rather walk through fire than be in the position he were currently in.

_ All such a mess, _ Pepper thought helplessly as she stepped into line behind Steve.

“Public consultation is actually happening this morning,” Steve said to her. “Peggy is accompanying Howard, she wants to see how we deal with the people here in the great capital. Sharon is going horse-riding and taking her own guards with her.”

“What are we doing?”

“You are having a few hours off,” Steve said. “I’m going to go to the public consultation.”

“I’m okay,” Pepper said. “If I take leave now I’ll just spend the hours worrying about you and Tony both.”

It was possibly a step too far; Steve glanced at her and she half expected him to tell her to keep her nose out of his business. He didn’t though, just rubbed at the back of his neck and nodded. “Okay, how about a break from Tony?” he offered. “He’s being foul, I know.”

Pepper nodded. “That would be good.”

Steve turned to Dugan with a grimace. “Do you mind catching up with Morita? Shadow Tony until the evening banquet, then you will be relieved.”

“Yes, Captain,” Dugan grinned, and Steve shoved at his shoulder.

“I haven’t been Captain for years.” 

“My mistake,” Dugan shrugged, winking at Pepper as he passed.

Steve blew out a breath. “Insubordinate son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Maybe I should discharge him. Do we have anyone we could replace him with?”

“You wouldn’t,” Pepper said.

“Maybe I should ask Sam to come back.”

“ _ He _ wouldn’t,” Pepper said. “He’s happy where he is.”

Steve grunted noncommittally at that, swinging his shield around onto his back. They walked side by side to the throne room, letting themselves in and standing at the back. Howard was already seated in the Iron Throne, Peggy in an ornate gold chair beside him. It didn’t match in the slightest, the delicate carvings of Peggy’s chair a strange contrast to the heavy sharpness of the throne. 

The soldiers positioned at the door were already letting people in through the doors; first in was a man wearing the robes of a priest, and Pepper saw the look of irritation that crossed Howard’s face. He would already be put out at having to attend the consultation as it was - but with Obadiah not yet back from the Dreadfort he had little choice.

“How many consultations do you think he will make?” Steve said quietly at her side.

Pepper hummed. “Seven.”

They watched as the priest walked up and bowed deeply, looking nervous. Howard bade him to speak and when he did, his voice was wavering.

“I’ll take that,” Steve said. “I think he’ll manage less, considering the first two are both from the Sept of Magda.”

“Well, as Kingsguard we’re not allowed to indulge in betting anyway, and I consider this bet void as you clearly have information I’m not privy to.”

Steve grinned at that. It took Pepper by surprise a little; between the stress of his duty and Tony being utterly unbearable, she’d not seen him smile in a long time. “We’re not gambling with gold, we’re allowed.”

“I’ll stick with my seven,” Pepper said. “He’s maintaining face for the ladies of Highgarden, remember.”

“Peggy will see straight through that,” Steve said. 

_ Of course she will _ , Pepper thought, but didn’t say it out loud. “Have you spoken to Sharon?” she asked instead, turning the conversation away from any that could be too close to critical of the King.

“I thought I said I was never talking about it again?”

“I’m not asking about the past, I’m asking about now.”

Steve nudged her with his elbow. “You sound like Tony, finding the loophole in every conversation possible,” he said, though he sounded fond. Pepper just waited, and sure enough he sighed, expression going back to disgruntled. “She said hello. I may have walked past her without looking at her.”

Pepper nudged him back with slightly more force, her brows climbing in shock. “You didn’t even  _ look _ at her?”

“Don’t sound like that, I know I was rude,” Steve said with a groan. “I just. She reminds me of before. When I was the general, and when I knew Bucky was alive. I get angry when I think about how it was and how it is now.”

He sighed, watching the priest plead his case with Howard. “And she once told me I didn’t know how to be a person, only a soldier, and that I worried too much about Bucky. After that I didn’t feel too kindly to anything she had to say.”    

Pepper bit the inside of her lip, a horrendous swell of guilt in the pit of her belly. Did Steve always mention Bucky this much? Or was she simply now attuned to it, knowing what she did about Bucky? The desire to shake Tony came back full force, as did the urge to just tell Steve the truth.

The priest was dismissed, another taking his place. Pepper let the conversation wash over her, standing with her own thoughts as people came and went. It was only Steve’s softly spoken  _ ‘damn’ _ when the seventh left that drew her attention back to the proceedings. She smiled to herself, feeling a spark of pride that she’d bested Steve, if only in a small game between the two of them.

“You win this one,” Steve muttered, and her smile got wider.

“And what’re you two finding so funny at the back?” Howard’s voice rang out and Pepper did her best to wipe the smile off of her face. 

“Nothing, Sire,” Steve said, face perfectly innocent. The man could turn it on and off at will, Pepper was sure of it.

“If you’re having such a good time, maybe you should come and take over,” Howard said. “Steve, come and finish the consults for me.”

“I must decline,” Steve called back. “I am not gifted in diplomacy. Only collecting heads on my shield.”

Howard snorted with laughter and Peggy started to laugh too, shooting Steve an amused smile. Steve smiled back, Pepper was pleased to note. 

“Are you allowed to say no to me?” Howard asked, but he was in much better spirits than could be expected. “Come on, you’re polite, step up. I’m fed up of doing these damn face to face meetings.”

Steve went to reply, his mouth already open, though his words were lost to everyone looking around as another voice rang out.

“I will happily step in if required, Sire.”

Pepper leaned back in surprise as she saw Obadiah crossing the throne-room, smiling widely.

Steve tensed, his shoulders going tight. His mistrust of Obadiah was easy to see if not easy to understand, but she and the rest of the kingsguard had long since given up on trying to work out where the skepticism had come from.  

“Obie!” 

Howard rose from his throne and strode over to greet Obadiah, bringing him around to greet Peggy. He did so with much joy and the ease of a man used to dealing with people of high birth, kissing Peggy’s hand and expressing his delight at having her at King’s Landing.

“I did not expect you back so soon,” Howard exclaimed. “Did the Dreadfort not welcome you?”

“I met General Rollins while on my journey,” Obadiah explained. “He is heading the army in Rumlow’s stead, and agreed to take our correspondence to him. By all accounts, the Dreadfort is not taking visitors, so I took the chance to pass on our message while Rollins was in a compliant frame of mind.”

“Rollins?” Steve called out loudly, and Pepper wished she could get away with stamping on his foot. When would he learn to stop speaking out of turn? “Jack Rollins?”

“You hold your tongue,” Howard replied. “This does not concern you.”

“Leave him be,” Peggy reprimanded, glancing Steve’s way. “Who is Jack Rollins?”

“He was a soldier, served under Steve when Steve was general,” Howard said dismissively. “He was discharged for unacceptable conduct.”

Peggy looked up again, her expression shrewd. “Surely that would be a known fact of the man? What kind of soldiers is Rumlow taking in?”

“That is not our concern,” Howard said, glaring at Steve. “Your issues with Rollins are in the past.”

“Don’t be too harsh, Howard,” Obadiah said. “I expect Steve is just stressed at the moment, considering the news about Barnes and all.”

Pepper felt herself draw in a breath, even as the room went very still. Time itself seemed to stop, heartbeats freezing, even the dust motes in the air pausing their dance through the sunlight that streamed in through the windows.

“What news about - what?” Steve asked, his voice ringing loud and clear through the room, all pretence at duty and composure gone. “What did you just say?”

“Steve, mind your tongue!” Howard snapped again. “This is unacceptable-”

“Howard, it’s okay,” Obadiah said, setting a hand on Howard’s elbow. He frowned, looking across at Steve. “A letter came for you, from the Wall,” he said. “Barnes is alive, they’ve found him alive.”

Steve made a noise like a strangled cry, taking a step forwards. Peggy looked just as shocked, her face pale. “Surely not,” she said. “It’s been - it’s been five years.”

“I gave Tony the letter before I left, he said he would hand it to you,” Obadiah said, distressed. “Steve, I am so sorry, I thought you knew.”

“Permission to go and get my letter, Sire,” Steve said tightly. Pepper reached out to place a calming hand on his elbow but he jerked away, his eyes glittering with anger. He looked mere seconds from drawing his sword, his whole posture set like he was about to lead a battle charge. 

“Damn that boy,” Howard cursed. “What the hell is he playing at? Yes. Steve, you may go.”

“Wait,” Peggy said, alarmed. “Howard-”

“Go, all of you,” Howard shouted. “Steve - you are dismissed, and tell that boy of mine I want to see him after you’ve gotten your letter. Pepper, go with him. Peggy, I shall see you at dinner.”

Steve was already halfway out of the room, walking with purpose. The fury he was feeling was palpable and several soldiers darted out of his way as he stormed towards the doors. Pepper broke into a run to catch up with him, calling out as she went.

“Steve! Steve, wait!”

Steve ignored her, marching his way through the courtyard and heading for the workshop. Moroita and Dugan were outside, advertising Tony’s presence like a banner. They looked around uneasily at the sight of Steve approaching, but made no attempt to stop him.

“Steve, don’t do this! He didn’t mean for this to happen!” Pepper shouted, and that at least made him stop. He turned around abruptly, starting forwards and grabbing her by her arms.

“Did you know?!” he asked, voice rising to a shout. “Did you fucking know?!”

“Yes,” she replied, voice shaking. “Steve, he was going to tell you-”

“When?!” Steve bellowed. “When he fucking felt like it?” he pushed her away and Pepper stumbled back, not quick enough to right herself before Steve was heading into the workshop, bellowing Tony’s name. 

“Stop him, for Gods’ sake,” Pepper shouted at the others, running after him. She, Morita and Dugan piled into the workshop to see Tony and Steve standing only a few feet apart, already shouting at one another, bitter words about lying and cheating, unkind curses and rants about things done for their own good. It was ugly and cruel, all traces of kindness and love completely gone. Bruce was trying to push Steve back, and Tony was so hurt and angry and not thinking straight, and Steve had shoved Bruce aside and grabbed Tony, lifting him up by his shirt.

Pepper drew her sword. Without thinking, without hesitation, she lifted her sword to head height, gripped in both hands and held perfectly horizontally. In two swift steps she was close enough to press the point of the sword to the side of Steve’s neck, the steel biting into his skin.    


Steve went very still, Tony’s shirt still held in his grip. Tony fell silent, chest heaving, his hands locked around Steve’s wrists, clenching so hard that his fingers left white indents on Steve’s skin. Behind them, Pepper distantly heard the sound of more swords being drawn but she didn’t waver.

“Put him down,” she said. “Our duty is to protect the King and heir. Do not let your personal feelings get in the way of your duty.”

Steve’s jaw worked and then he nodded curtly, letting go of Tony and shoving him back. Heart hammering in her chest, Pepper lowered her sword though didn’t sheathe it.

Steve reached up wipe his neck, his fingers coming away with a streak of crimson. He turned his eyes back on Tony, still furiously angry. “Give me my letter.”

Tony stared belligerently back. “It was-”

“Don’t you dare say it was for my own fucking good!” Steve yelled.

“Tony, give him the letter,” Pepper shouted, feeling tears in her eyes. “It is not yours. You are not in control of this,  _ give him his letter. _ ”

Tony swallowed hard, looking away. The silence in the room stretched out and Pepper heard Dugan shifting behind her, heard Steve breathing, the clink of his armour as he shifted.

Finally, Tony slipped his hand into his shirt and pulled out the letter. Gods, he still had it on him? Nine days since they’d returned and he still carried it around, just like he carried the weight of his worry with him.

Steve stepped forwards and roughly took it from Tony’s hand, clenching it tightly in his own. He stepped up close to Tony, an ugly look on his usually handsome face.

“I may have loved you,” he said, low and bitter. “But I am never going to forgive you for this.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving nothing but heartbreak, shock and silence in his wake.  

 

* * *

  
  


**Somewhere in the middle of Westeros**

“So, where do you want to go today?”

“I don’t know, where do you want to go today?”

Peter looked over at Wade, exasperated. “I asked first,” he said, kicking half-heartedly at Wade’s ankles where he lay prone next to Peter, both of them sprawled backwards on a grassy bank next to the wide swathe of the River Lee.

“Well I wanted to go further North and collect a lovely ninety Stags apiece for doing some stabbing for Rumlow,” Wade said, crossing one ankle over the other and shuffling to get comfy again, his arms crossed behind his head. “You said no.”

“Rumlow is a crazy bastard,” Peter said, shifting on his elbow and yawning. “I’m not working for a man who murders civilians and encourages his soldiers to rape and pillage. He puts heads on pikes and sets them alight, Wade.”

“Okay, okay, you have morals, I get it,” Wade said. “No working for Rumlow. The money would have been nice, though.”

“Mmm,” Peter agreed, pulling at the grass. “We could go back South?”

“What, and get arrested?” Wade snorted. “We’re both wanted by Stark, remember? He catches us and we’ll end up at the wall, and I don’t fancy freezing my balls off up there. Even if Clint Barton is Lord Commander.”

“What is with you and Barton?”

“He’s handsome.”

“You said the same about Steve Rogers, which is why we went South in the first place, and look where that landed us,” Peter reminded him.

“As outlaws,” Wade said, sounding far too happy about the fact. 

“Outlaws,” Peter sighed. He craned his head up to look at the branches above them, the way they dipped and swayed in the breeze. He was about to prop his shield against the tree they were underneath so he could lean back against it, but a faint sound caught his attention. He bolted upright, looking intently to his left.

“Your bandit senses tingling?” Wade asked without bothering to open his eyes.

“Shush,” Peter hissed. 

“Do we get to do some stabbing?” Wade asked, a grin lighting up his scarred face, mouth twisted lopsidedly. “Brilliant, which way do we-”

“Wade, shut up,” Peter said, and reached over to clamp a hand over Wade’s mouth. He listened again and - yes, there it was. A faint scream on the air.  

“Come on!”

He leapt to his feet, grabbing his sword and his spider-adorned shield. Wade sprang upright too, seizing his katanas and bouncing on the balls of his feet. Together, they raced down the hill and towards the road, and sure enough, about quarter of a mile away Peter could see a gang of men crowding around a pair of horses, one of them dragging the rider to the ground, her screams growing louder and louder.

“Wade! Come on!” Peter yelled. They made it to the outskirts of the tumult just as the second rider was dragged to the ground as well. Peter acted as quickly as he could, grabbing his bolas from his belt and slinging it at one of the men, sending him tumbling to the ground in a tangle of cord. The rest of the group turned in surprise - seven men, Peter counted, including the one on the ground, trying to free his ankles from the bolas.  

“Good morning,” Peter said brightly. “Are we late to the festivities?”

“What the fuck is it to you?” One of the men asked brusquely. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“You just seemed to be having so much fun,” Wade chimed in. “We felt left out.”

“Get out of here,” another man said, stepping closer to them, aggression radiating from him. “Before you find trouble.”

“But we love trouble,” Wade said earnestly, not remotely cowed. He lifted his hand to scratch his head, his katana glinting in the sun. “We live for trouble. Trouble gets me going, if you know what I mean.”

The men now looked a mixture of angry and confused, one of them taking a wary step away from Wade. It was a common reaction to Wade, really, thought it wasn’t often clear if people’s disdain were because of his scars or because of the things he said. 

“Hang on, I know you,” one of the men suddenly said, stepping forwards. “You’re that Wilson bastard. Which makes you,” he said, pointing his axe at Peter. “Parker. Do-gooders from The Brothers without Banners. We know exactly what we do with you do-good types when you stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

The rest of the group started to laugh. The woman and the man who had been dragged from their horses were staring at Peter with terrified eyes, pleading silently for help. 

“Step away,” Peter said. “Leave them alone.”

Wade stepped forwards. “I will not ask twice,” he said. “Put down your weapons and cower.”

“Shut them up, lads,” one of the men said dismissively, turning back towards the woman on the floor. She started to scream again, as several of the men peeled away, drawing daggers and clubs as they advanced on Peter and Wade.

“Oh, great,” Peter sighed. “Now look what’s going to happen.”

“I did warn them,” Wade said. “You heard me. Lady on the ground, you heard me, yes?”

“Don’t kill anyone,” Peter said, and Wade just rolled his eyes dismissively before lunging at the advancing men, katanas flashing. More screams filled the air and Peter winced, quickly darting forwards and taking out one of the men with a well placed kick, followed by a swift punch.

It took only a couple of minutes at most. Wade flew at the men like they’d personally wronged him, still running his mouth and making increasingly loud demands. When no-one complied, he dispatched five of the men with ease, leaving them strewn across the floor with injuries ranging from broken noses all the way to a full decapitation. Peter eyed the bodies wearily, rubbing at his forehead and sheathing his own sword.

“What kind of not killing is that?”  

Wade looked at him indignantly. ”He made me ask twice!”

Peter chose to let it lie, holding out his hand to the lady on the floor. She seemed well on her way to hysterics, shaking from head to toe and unable to articulate a sound.  Her companion was there in an instant, pushing past Peter and pulling the woman to her feet. Looking as panicked as he had done while they were under attack, the man pushed the woman back away from Peter and Wade.

“Please, just let us go-”

Confused and not altogether following, Peter looked around, gesturing to the bodies on the floor and the remaining bandits that were fleeing the scene, clearly deciding to cut their losses. “We saved you! We’re not going-”

“Please, just let us-”

The man’s pleas were lost beneath an ear-splitting scream; Peter whirled around automatically, just in time to see one of the presumed-dead thugs lurch to his feet, stagger forwards and then plant his knife straight into the side of Wade’s neck.

_ “Wade!” _

Wade made a funny gurgling noise and then collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. The thug went with him, hitting the floor on top of him and moving no more.

Heart in his throat, Peter abandoned the woman and her partner, running over to the unmoving pile of bodies. He shoved the man off of Wade, hands slipping in the blood. There was so much blood he could barely get a grip on Wade, shoving his hands under his arms and dragging him across the rough ground, away from the other bodies.

“Oh, great,” Peter panted, dropping Wade and grimacing, flicking his hands to try and get the blood off. Hooves drew his attention, and he turned to see the woman and man galloping away without looking back. 

“You’re welcome!” he shouted after them, then turned back to stare at Wade. He was lying there with unseeing eyes wide open and his lips slightly parted in surprise. The wound on his neck was ragged and deep, still pulsing blood out over the grass.

“Just great,” Peter repeated, and he turned around to sit heavily on the grass, his back to Wade. The sharp tang of blood filled his nostrils but he didn’t move away, just set his shield down and tugged off one of his boots, shaking out a few small stones that had somehow found their way in.

“Why am I always surrounded by death,” he muttered. He looked over his shoulder at Wade, who was still just lying there dead, staring blankly at the sky. Peter sighed and leant back to close his eyelids before returning his attention to his boots. Their rescuees were long gone, leaving nothing behind but a torn cloak. Not that he ever expected a reward for doing the right thing, but they were on their last three silver stags and that wasn’t going to get them far.

Boots sorted, he set about clearing up some of the mess that Wade had made. Leaving Wade exactly where he was - served him right for getting himself stabbed - he dragged the bodies of the bandits off of the main trail, lining them up side by side in the grass. 

He’d just about finished and was sitting back down and wondering if it would be appropriate to have a nap so close to the site of a massacre, when from behind him came a tell-tale gasp and splutter.

“That took you ages,” he said, closing his eyes and turning his face up into the sun.

“Oh my god, that hurt,” Wade croaked. He pushed himself into a sitting position, hand clamped to the bright pink scar on his neck. “I did not see that coming!”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got stabbed in the jugular,” Wade said. “Fuck, where’s the bastard that stabbed me? I’m gonna fuck him up.”

“He’s dead,” Peter told him. “His last act on this Earth was killing you.”

“Lucky bastard, not many people get to say that,” Wade said, tilting his head left and right with a horrible cracking sound. “Where’s the damsel in distress?”

“Far far away from us,” Peter said, climbing to his feet and holding a hand out to pull Wade up. “Come on. Let’s get far far away from the dead bodies.”

“Which direction?” Wade asked, taking Peter’s hand and clambering up.

“Further north,” Peter said. “But not towards the Dreadfort,” he hastily added, as Wade opened his mouth. “We’ll head North a day or two and then cut East towards White Harbour, there’s always work there.”

“But it’s colder up there,” Wade sighed. “Can we at least use-”

“We are not using the Kingsroad, it's too busy and we’re wanted criminals,” Peter said firmly.

Wade sighed expansively. “You’re too young and beautiful to be a wanted criminal,” he said. “This world is all back to front.”

Peter knew better than to protest about Wade calling him beautiful, so let him have it without argument. Wade retrieved his katanas and then proceeded to rifle through the pockets of the dead men, looking for any spare coins or items of value. Peter left him to it; he would say something if he honestly thought he could stop Wade, but as it were they were short on money and Wade were nigh on impossible to reason with over some things.

They set off along the track, moving slower than they usually would to compensate for Wade’s recovery. He was already healing fast, the scar on his neck dulling to a fleshy red rather than the angry pink of new skin. It was a big one, and added yet more weight to the unspoken message about Wade’s character and temperament. At least it wasn’t another one on his face, Peter thought absently. They always looked the worst. 

In a few hours, they had covered enough ground to have crossed into Winterfell Lands, though the sun still shone brightly and the day was warm. Peter shivered despite himself; since the mess with Thor being sent to the wall, Winterfell had grown unfriendly and hard, and he could feel it in the air. It used to be that all paths North were full of people travelling to and from Winterfell, but since Loki had banished his brother and made himself Lord, the way was all but abandoned. 

The land grew more rugged as they travelled, hardy grazing herds covering miles of short, tough grassland instead of the rich fields of crops and lush grasses that had bordered the road further South. Life was hard up here, but the Northerners were tough.

“If I die one more time, I’ll be into double digits,” Wade said as they climbed over a low stone wall, looking out for farm hands that might raise unnecessary alarms. “I think that deserves a ballad or two.”

“The ballad of Wade Wilson, the mercenary with a mouth,” Peter said, a grin hitching his mouth.

“The mercenary who just won’t quit,” Wade added. “Maybe I should get a new name. Death-Defeater. Reaper-Dodger.”

“Don’t tempt fate, or the next one will end up being permanent,” Peter said, and Wade pulled a disgusted face.

“I am not going to die,” he said, full of confidence and loud enough to scare away a few sheep that had been quietly grazing. “The gods have seen fit to make me immortal, who are you to argue.”

“Black magic has made you immortal,” Peter shot back.

“Gods.”

“Magic.”

“Gods.”

“Whatever,” Peter sighed as they reached the far wall of the field. It was significantly higher than the last, so Peter braced himself with his back against it, allowing Wade to plant a foot on his knee and then climb up. He waited for Wade to pull himself up onto the wall but Wade didn’t, just stayed exactly where he was with most of his weight braced on Peter’s knee.

“Wade!” he exclaimed, shoving up at him. “Get off!”

“Your bandit-senses missed this one,” Wade replied, sounding strangled. “Peter, look at this, what the _ shit- _ ”

He finally clambered the rest of the way onto the wall, allowing Peter to scramble up beside him. When he did, he immediately knew what had caused Wade to stop; in the far distance, a huge host could be seen, a great column of men with black banners, all marked with a white cross.

“Crossed bones,” Peter said to himself more than Wade, eyes frantically scanning the horizon. “Wade, that’s the  _ Dreadfort _ , the Dreadfort is on the move.”

“Why is the Dreadfort doing anything?” Wade asked, sounding confused. “I thought their game was the rape and pillage of the North? How the fuck are there so many of them? Why is Loki not stopping this? Technically he’s the Lord, right?”

“They’re flying Rumlow’s Banners, not Loki’s,” Peter said. “Shit. Wade, there’s thousands of them. We’ve got to warn someone.”

“What? No, we don’t get paid for warning people,” Wade complained. “They’re like twenty miles away, it’ll take them days to get anywhere with that many men.”

“We're going South,” Peter said, clambering back down off the wall, landing easily in a crouch. 

“Please don’t say we’re going to King’s Landing,” Wade said, jumping down and landing next to Peter. “Wanted, remember? Wall, freezing balls?”

“The King needs to know,” Peter said, and paused momentarily before deciding that manipulation was probably his quickest way to get Wade moving. “And think about it. That guy in the tavern said that Rollins was working for Rumlow, right? Think about who Rollins might want revenge against? The guy who threw him out of King’s Landing? The guy who shamed him in front of the entire Southern Army?”

It was improbable and didn’t make much strategic sense, but it was enough for Wade. “They lay one hand on the golden head of Steve Rogers and I’ll murder them both myself,” he said, already marching off. “Come on Petey, let’s go and save the day.”

“My name is not Petey,” Peter shouted, but Wade was too busy marching back the way they had come, so Peter gave it up as a bad job and followed, breaking into a run to catch up. 

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**At the Wall**

Bucky eyed the assembled crowd in front of him somewhat tiredly, sitting back on Clint’s bed with the white raven on his shoulder, claws digging into his skin. He still didn’t feel warm, even though he was wrapped in furs and the fire had been roaring away for hours. Maybe he was never going to feel warm ever again.

“Okay, Buck, start at the beginning,” Clint said softly. He had the chair he was sitting on turned backwards and was straddling the seat, arms folded atop the back and chin resting atop his wrists. He looked tired too, Bucky thought. Different. He was carrying so much with him and it was visible in every line on his face, every movement he made. He’d changed so much while Bucky had been gone.

He tried to rally his thoughts, get them in some semblance of order. Clint had said to start at the beginning but that meant talking about the attack, and Bucky didn’t want to relive that moment. Thinking about the shouting and screaming, all the blood and Clint’s terrified face - it was enough to make him shudder. Instead, he got straight to the point. “There’s something beyond The Wall,” he said. “Something dangerous.” His eyes flickered to Thor, who was standing on the other side of the room, leaning against the door. He looked different too, more serious.

“Something,” Fandral repeated flatly, from his perch by the window. Every now and again he’d glance out, peering up at the sky like he expected fresh snow to start falling at any moment.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, swallowing hard. Lucky shifted restlessly, nudging Bucky’s good hand with his nose. Bucky scratched his ears absently, ignoring the way the raven puffed out its feathers in obvious indignation. “Yeah. You remember the stories we used to read? The reason The Wall was built in the first place?”

“Frost-Giants?” said Thor, brow furrowing. “That’s nothing more than a story.”

Bucky shook his head. He opened his mouth to carry on talking but found himself gripped by a fit of coughing. Clint was there in an instant, passing him a cup of hot broth, holding it up to Bucky’s lips and guiding his hands around it. He managed a few soothing sips and then pushed it away, nodding in thanks.

“It’s not a story,” he said, exhausted. “I saw them. They came out from under the snow, like things crawling out of graves. Hundreds of them. Some of them were..I don’t know. Fifteen feet tall? Huge great blue things. The others were white. They were like ghosts, you’d see them one minute and then they’d be part of the ice again.” _Just like the attack,_ he didn't say. The way they simply appeared out of the snow and killed Lord Commander Coulson, and dragged Loki's soldiers away. 

“It can't be true,” Fandral said, elbow on his knee and chin propped on his hand, his palm half covering the worried twist of his mouth. “If the Frost Giants are real, the only thing standing between them and Westeros…”

“Is us,” Clint finished wearily, rubbing at his brow. “Wow.”

They fell into silence. Bucky slumped back against the pillows, reaching up to gently stroke the raven as it flapped its wings to get its balance. He quietly watched the others, taking in their expressions of grim shock. He was relieved though, even with the fear in the air, relieved that they’d believed him.

“It gets worse,” he says a few long minutes later, barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

Fandral made a funny noise. “The man says that Frost-Giants are real and it can get worse?”

Bucky smiled tiredly, though in truth there wasn't much to be laughing about. “Yeah, I’m afraid so.”

“How?” Clint asked. “Bucky, how is it worse?”

“Loki is the one who woke them,” Bucky said heavily, and the whole room might as well have frozen over for how still it went. “He has re-opened a path through the wall at the West Castle. He goes through and meets with the leader of the Frost Giants, a being called Ymir. They’ve made a pact, that the Frost Giants will get to take the land and turn it into their own Winter, as long as Loki remains King.”

“No,” Thor spoke out brusquely, pain evident in his face and voice. “No, he would not.”

“I’m sorry-” Bucky began.

“No, it is not true. Whatever has happened to you out there - your mind is not what is was,” Thor said firmly, pointing his axe at Bucky. It wasn't threatening in the slightest, more like he was trying to underscore his point. “Loki has not endeared himself to anyone in the North, but he is of Winterfell and he is my brother.”

“He is a maniac,” Bucky bit back, his patience running out. “He’s going to take the Seven Kingdoms as his own-”

“Enough,” Thor shouted, stepping towards Bucky in anger, but Lucky was off the bed in an instant, teeth bared and hackles raised as he planted himself between Thor and Bucky.

“Would everyone just calm down,” Clint shouted, getting to his feet. “Thor, stop it, this isn't helping. Lucky, rest.”

The authority in Clint’s voice took Bucky by surprise, as did the way everyone obeyed. Even Lucky listened, dropping down onto his belly with his head on his paws, still staring at Thor with his ears pricked forwards.

“Whether we believe what Buck’s saying about Loki or not,” Clint says slowly. “We have to go and tell someone about the Frost-Giants. If this is happening, we need more than just us here at The Wall.”

“Who is going to believe us?” Fandral scoffed. “Hello Westeros, yes, a man we presumed dead five years ago has come back from the dead and says some imaginary monsters are coming to kill us all?” He hastily held up a hand to Bucky, who knew he was scowling murderously in Fandral’s direction. “I believe you! It’s just a lot to take in.”

“And especially for Southern babies who have not seen snow in ten years,” Thor adds.

“Exactly,” Fandral agreed. “Many of them probably think we and the Wall are nothing more than a myth, let alone Frost-Giants.”

Bucky looked to Clint, who was staring at the fire, lost in thought. “Bucky?” he finally said after long moments, not looking away from the flames. “Do you know when this is going to happen?”

“No,” Bucky said. “Not yet. They’re still waking. Still growing.”

“Good,” Clint said, and then seemed to shake himself out of his reverie. “We’ll go and tell Steve.”

“Steve Rogers?” Fandral said doubtfully. “He’s head of the Kingsguard, what can he do?”

“The right thing,” Bucky said, struggling to sit up, pushing his blankets away. The raven gave him up as a bad job and fluttered over to sit on the mantle, jabbing at the brickwork behind with its beak. “He’ll do the right thing, whatever that is.”

He swung his feet around as if to get out of bed, but found his ankles suddenly in Clint’s grip and shoved unceremoniously back into the bed. 

“Not right now,” Clint said firmly, pulling the blankets back over his feet. “First you rest. It can wait a few days.”

“No way,” Bucky protested. “Clint, we have to do something-”

“And we will,” Clint said. “But not with you like this.”

“You once fought off pillagers with an arrow in your ass,” Bucky said flatly, and Fandral started to laugh.

“I did, and it was not a proud moment,” Clint said, resting his hands atop Bucky’s knees. “Bucky, humour me. You’ll get half a mile and then pass out, look at you. I’m not carrying you all the way to King’s Landing.”

And maybe it was the edge of command in Clint’s tone, maybe it was the fact that Bucky still felt exhausted, but he found himself nodding. “A few days,” he said as he sank back into the bed.

“You have my word,” Clint said softly, reassuring. “We’ll talk more in the morning. Thor, go and check everyone is as they should be. Do not breathe a word of this to the men, they’re scared enough as it is.”

“Commander,” Thor nodded and turned to go.

“Fandral, back to your post,” Clint says. “Tell the men we’ve been watching over Bucky to see if he’ll make it. Good news, he will.”

“Commander,” Fandral echoed, and then paused. “What of the rumours surrounding the fact that Barnes is in the Lord Commander's bed?”

Clint paused and then shrugged. “If the gossip keeps them warm, let them gossip,” he said. “Tell me if gossip turns into any discontent or anything threatening, yes?”

“Of course,” Fandral said, and then left the room behind Thor, closing the door behind him. Bucky watched the heavy oak thud into place then looked over to Clint, who was standing there with his arms folded, eyes already on Bucky. It struck him then, not how much he’d missed him, because he hadn't been aware of much while he’d been away, but of all the time they’d lost. Five years.

“Am I still welcome in your bed after five years?” he said quietly, and Clint smiled tiredly.

“Kept it warm for you,” he joked. “I missed you.”

“I know,” Bucky said quietly, and then, “Come here.”

Clint understood, of course he did. He slowly reached to take his quiver off his back, setting it on the floor by the wall. His jacket followed, then his jerkin and undershirt, so that he was bare from the waist up. His skin was pale, covered in scars and bruises.

“You look awful,” Bucky said before he could help himself. 

“Well at least I’m not blue,” Clint yawned widely, then clambered onto the bed beside Bucky, lying down next to him. Bucky reached out with his good hand, brushing his fingers over Clint’s shoulder. He still didn’t understand this between him and Clint, the way they seemed to just slot together like bow and arrow. It hadn’t always been as such - when Bucky had arrived at the Wall they’d been openly hostile: Bucky trying to find his feet in a brand new world, Clint not accepting the man who was so similar to him in some ways that his very presence felt like a threat. 

Those days were long gone though, and Bucky had no desire to remember them. Not when Clint was leaning over to gently kiss him, his body close and warm. Not when he was home.

“What happened to you out there, Buck?” Clint asked quietly, his mouth hovering over Bucky’s.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Bucky replied. “Not tonight, anyway.”

Clint nodded again, understanding. “We’ll get you stronger,” he said. “Then we’ll go and find Steve.”

“Steve,” Bucky repeated slowly, quietly. Steve seemed to be such an abstract concept to him right now, someone so far away that he wasn't even real. “You think he’ll remember me?”

Clint’s smile was sad. “He’d never forget you, Buck. You already forgotten everything you told me about him?”

Bucky’s mouth twisted, all at once feeling like crying. “I think I’ve forgotten a lot,” he said, then, “thank you for always understanding about Steve. For...letting me still have him.”

Clint shrugged. “He’s basically your brother, right? I’m just an easy lay, I can't top that.”

And Bucky found himself laughing, though the tears were far from gone. “You’re an idiot.”

“You can’t call me an idiot, I’m Lord Commander,” Clint said, though he was smiling and leaning back in to kiss Bucky once more. “I know what he means to you. I won’t take that away. Though if you did go find him without me, I’d probably spend the next few years hiding here and licking my wounds, pretending that you didn’t exist.”

“I won’t go without you,” Bucky said, and Clint’s mouth hitched in an almost smile.

“Then it works out alright.”

Bucky nodded, and lifted his left hand up to gently trace his blue fingertips across Clint’s mouth. Clint shivered, his breath visible on the air, white whorls twisting around Bucky’s fingers.

“Sorry,” Bucky said, lowering his hand.

“It’s okay,” Clint said. “Just don’t touch my dick with it.”

And Bucky was laughing, hard enough to hurt. He didn’t care though; all he cared about was that Clint was there and he would soon be strong enough to get up and travel south, would be strong enough to go and find Steve after ten long years. For tonight though, all he had to do was rest.

 

* * *

 

**King's Landing.**

 

Dawn rose over the Red Keep, bathing red stone in ever-encroaching warm light, like the sun were slowly pulling back the night and exposing everything it could lay its hands on. The Keep and it’s occupants started to stir, birdsong soon joined by voices and barking and neighing, a thousand lives all waking with the sun.

Steve had not slept. As the sun rose he was still sitting before the heart tree in the Grove, his head in his hands. He missed the way the light shone through the scarlet leaves of the tree, missed the way that the trunk glowed white as it was greeted by the day. His shield lay abandoned a few feet behind him, his sword also cast aside in his grief.

He felt more than heartbroken. In truth, he felt like his heart had upped and left his body altogether, leaving behind a peculiar emptiness in its wake. He’d shed his tears after leaving Tony the day before, bitter angry tears that had scalded hot down his face and at the time had seemed like they would never end. But they had, and now all Steve had was a feeling of nothingness where his grief over Tony and his joy over Bucky should have been.

Footsteps behind him drew his attention. He should have gotten up, picked up his sword and shield and faced whoever it was, but he didn’t. He just sat there, staring at the base of the tree and listening to the rustling of the leaves.

“Steve.”

It was Pepper, quiet and sad. He thought he’d still be angry at her for her part in the deception, but he wasn’t. He was just tired.

“What?” he asked flatly.

“Come inside,” she said. “Please. The ladies of Highgarden want to visit the Grove after breakfast.”

There went Steve’s plan of sitting there all day. He just wanted to be alone. He certainly didn’t want Sharon to appear and try to talk to him about Bucky; historically that never ended well for them. He didn’t want to see Peggy, either. As much as she still held a place in his teenaged-heart, he suddenly found he couldn’t stand the thought of her kindness and pity.  That thought was enough to propel him into motion. He climbed to his feet and retrieved both sword and shield, not looking at Pepper as he did. He was about to head for the gates when Pepper reached out, her hand on his wrist to stop him.

“Tony’s outside the gate,” she said. “He’s - I don’t know, but I think he wants to talk to you.”

Steve sighed, closing his eyes for a long moment. The thought of talking to Tony didn’t seem any more painful than talking to Sharon or Peggy; in a way, it felt more impossible. Not something he didn't want to do, but something he simply couldn't do.

“You know how much time I’ve spent here, talking to a ghost,” he finally said, squinting up at the sunlit leaves and choosing to ignore what she had said about Tony. 

“Yes,” Pepper said quietly.

“And you know it was my fault that he ended up at The Wall?” Steve continued, casting his mind back. The memory was as clear as day, as sharp and painful as broken glass. Pepper didn’t reply, but she looked afraid of him and what he might say. “Four days before I was due to be made general, and Jack Rollins started a fight with me in a tavern. I swung for him and the innkeeper got caught up in the mess. He had hold of my arm and as I swung for Rollins, he got pulled forwards and fell. He hit his head and went down like he’d been run through with a sword.”

He’d never said this story out loud, not to anyone. Pepper looked horrified, and so she should. Steve didn’t care. At this point, he barely felt he had anything to lose. “Bucky took the blame,” he said dully. “He said he’d done it, that he’d been the one to hit the innkeeper. Told me to run, that if I didn’t get out of there I’d be sent to the Wall and Rollins would be made General in my place. It all happened so fast.”

“Oh, Steve,” Pepper said, her eyes bright. “It was an accident, a terrible accident.”

“That Bucky paid for,” Steve said bitterly. “The only thing that kept me going was that he was still alive, and that we’d kept the army out of the hands of Jack fucking Rollins and his ilk. And now Bucky’s back, and I don’t even...I should be happy. But I’m not. I’m scared.”

Another time and he would have been cursing himself for admitting as such, but this time around he just didn’t have it in him to care. All he had left was being honest, though considering the story he had just told and his oaths, he’d been making a mockery of that for quite some time.

“You’re probably in shock,” Pepper said. “Steve, please talk to Tony. You know he was scared too.”

“Scared of what exactly?”

“Of losing you.”

Steve shook his head at that, a faint taste of bitterness in the back of his throat. “I was never his to begin with,” he said. “I broke my oaths to be with him. What did he think? That he would marry the Heiress of Highgarden and would carry on with me in the dead of night?” 

“Steve,” Pepper said again, helpless.

“Enough,” Steve said mildly. “I don’t want to talk about it. What’s done is done.”

“Steve, don’t do this,” Pepper said, now sounding anguished. “He loves you.”

“He lied to me,” Steve said. “Go about your duties, Pepper. Tell the men that you, Morita and Falsworth are to now take the lead with protecting Tony. Dugan, Dernier, Jones and I will continue to shadow the King. Jones will be available for relief of your teams, we shall schedule it so no-one has to work more than a day at once.”

“Steve-”

“I gave you an order,” Steve said, still calmer than he should be. “Go. You were quick enough to draw your sword on me in the name of duty, do not give me reason to do the same.” He turned his back on Pepper, walking across the Grove towards the far wall instead of the gate. He sheathed his sword back onto his belt, swung his shield around onto his back. 

“Where are you going?” Pepper asked.

“To find the King,” Steve said, and set about climbing up the gnarled old mulberry that stood beside the far wall of the Grove. It was easy work, and he soon managed to get on top of the wall, peering down into the alley on the other side and pointedly ignoring the look of shock from the royal baker and his underlings as they hurried past, arms laden with baskets and bread.

“You cannot avoid this forever,” Pepper shouted after him.

“And you cannot talk to me like that, I’m your superior,” Steve replied. He knew he’d struck a nerve with the way she reared back. He’d never once pulled rank over her like that, but needs must. “Goodbye, Pepper.”

And without waiting for a response, he swung himself down off the top of the wall, holding onto the brick with both hands, lowering himself down before letting go and dropping into the alley. When he straightened up, he found that two members of the town watch were standing there, open mouthed and spears all but forgotten in their hands.

“Gentlemen,” he said with a nod, brushing his hands off and setting off, not caring one bit about what they’d say about his stunt. He’d avoided having to face Tony, and that was all that mattered right now. 

He slipped silently into the Keep, asking a passing maidservant for the King’s whereabouts and then proceeding to where he was, by all accounts, still sleeping. He found Morita and Dugan outside the door to the King’s bedchambers, leaning back against the stone and chatting idly.

“Captain!” Dugan exclaimed. “We didn’t expect you today!”

“Why not?” Steve asked, and Dugan and Morita looked at each other. Morita shook his head fractionally and Dugan seemed to take that as a message, shrugging at Steve.

“Uh, I thought today was your day off?”

It was a poor lie, but at least they had the tact to not talk about the events of the day before. He knew the cat was well and truly out of the bag concerning his affair with Tony, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about it, ever.

“Have you seen Pepper yet?” Steve asked. “I’m reforming squads. Morita - you, Pepper and Falsworth are to take care of Tony, with Jones in reserve. The rest of us will watch the King. I’ll redraw up the plan later this evening, but that’s where you’ll be expected to be.” 

Both men nodded, though they looked unsure.

“Objections?” Steve asked.

Both shook their heads. “No,” Dugan said slowly, looking like he were bracing for an outburst from Steve. “We get that. We just…”

“How is Barnes alive?” Morita finished for him, worry written all over his face. It hit Steve then that he wasn't the only one who had known Bucky, who would be wondering what the hell had happened to him. As he took in Morita’s hesitant expression, he felt the grief and joy somewhere in a distant part of him, somewhere he couldn’t reach yet.

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Cap-”

“Don’t,” Steve bit out. “I’m not your Captain anymore, don’t call me that.”

He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving yet more silence in his wake.

 

* * *

Steve should have known that a second public session in as many days would spell trouble for someone. He didn’t expect that someone to be  _ him _ , not until he was positioned in the wings with Jones and found himself having to face not only the trials of a public consultation while running on no sleep, but the glances and whispers from Howard, Obadiah, Nick Fury, Peggy  _ and _ Sharon.

If he were more in control of his wits he would have made comment, but as it were he just stood there, letting their glances roll off of him like water breaking against rock. He still didn’t have enough energy in him to care; all he could think about was Bucky. Barton had said he was injured: how bad was it? What state would he be in after five long years on the wrong side of the Wall? 

Citizens came and went and Steve didn't even notice, too wrapped up in his own mind. He stared at the stained glass window of the hall for so long that it blurred. It was like his senses and thoughts were both weighed down with armour. Maybe Pepper had been right. Maybe he was in shock. 

It was only when the sun had risen to its peak in the sky and the hall were uncomfortably warm that Steve came out of his reverie, forced back into alertness by Jones nudging him. Quickly scanning the hall, he first of all saw that Howard was standing up and being passed a goblet of wine, that Sharon and Peggy were leaning close and talking in low voices, that the hall was empty of citizens, and that  _ Tony was there. _

Steve didn’t react at all, not outwardly at least. He just watched as Tony walked the length of the hall, up to Howard and the others. He leaned in to speak to Obadiah and Howard, greeted Peggy and Sharon, ignored Nick Fury and then looked over his shoulder at Steve.

He looked awful. Tired and pale and like he was coming down with illness. Steve let his eyes meet Tony’s for a second and then looked away, back at the stained glass window. 

“Lock the doors,” Howard called, and the huge doors were once again shut, closing out the citizens until Howard deigned to hear them out again. “By the gods, they can talk. Steve, with me.”

Steve automatically bent to pick up his shield, walking over without pause. He was doing his duty, following orders. That was easy. He took his place at the side of the king, standing and waiting for more instructions.

“You’re very quiet today,” Howard remarked, sparing him a sideways glance as he lowered himself back into the cradle of the Iron Throne. “Still in a snit about that letter?”

“Howard,” Peggy reprimanded sharply, in a way that no-one else in Westeros would be able to get away with. “He’s allowed to be upset about the news, leave him  _ alone. _ ”

“Yes, yes,” Howard said dismissively. Steve continued to stare determinedly at the floor, not sure what the brewing feeling in his belly was. Anger? No, he’d recognise that any day. Fear? Maybe, but it didn’t sit quite right.

“I’m surprised you haven't already asked permission to go running off North,” Howard snorted, draining his goblet and holding it out to be collected. “Good, because it saves me the trouble of saying no.”

Steve's head snapped up at that, an odd ringing in his ears. Howard wasn't even looking at him but Tony was. His eyes were too bright, bordering on desperate but Steve could barely process what that meant as the feeling in his belly spread. His fingers flexed on the straps of his shield. 

“Sire, the Small Council awaits,” Fury said as Howard passed his goblet off to a servant.

“To hell with it, we can do it here in the throne room,” Howard said. “If we move to the Council Chambers then Tony will only run off on the way.”

“You know me so well,” Tony said with a shrug. “You’ve never needed me there before.”

“Sire, we have guests,” Fury said evenly, and Howard cursed. As good as relations with Highgarden and the Carters were, it would be unthinkable to speak of matters of the Kingdom while they were there.

“That is not a problem,” Peggy said, standing up and smoothing down her dress. “Sharon, let us go.”

As she spoke, she looked to Steve, her expression full of question. He lowered his eyes away, not watching as she and Sharon left. What would be the point? They couldn't do anything about his current predicament, and besides, his mind was fixated on what Howard had said.

_ I’m surprised you haven't already asked permission to go running off North. _

_ I should have gone, _ Steve thought to himself.  _ I should have gone straight away. If I hadn’t been so angry with Tony, I would have gone. _

He swallowed hard, staring at the ground again. He didn’t know what to do. What if Bucky was angry at him for what had happened all those years ago? What if Steve now meant nothing more to him than a stranger would? How could he go all the way to The Wall and find that Bucky wasn’t the brother he remembered? It would be  _ all his fault. _

The doors closed with a thud, guards were set to ensure there would be no interruption. Tony seemed to realise he was trapped and went to sit on the steps of the throne's raised dais, sprawling back indolently on an elbow. Obadiah took Peggy’s vacated seat, leaning in to murmur to Howard. 

“First point of discussion today,” Fury called, walking up to stand before the throne, his hands clasped behind his back. Everyone settled, finishing their own conversations and turning their attention to him. “The Maximoffs.”

“Yes,” Howard said, annoyed. “Seems the fucking assassin not only has decided to betray the crown and not kill them, but has sided with them instead.”

“Yes,” Fury said. “Unfortunately, it appears that she has history with the man responsible for rescuing the Maximoffs when we removed Magneto from the throne-”

“Hang on,” Tony interrupted, holding up a hand and sounding shocked. “You sent an assassin to kill a couple of kids?” 

“You would have known that if you’d bothered to come to the meetings,” Howard snapped. “Stop being so precious, Tony. This is your kingdom at stake.”

“They’re children,” Tony snapped back. “That’s not right.”

“Enough,” Howard said, dismissive. Tony’s jaw was clenched, every inch of him radiating discomfort and anguish. Howard either didn’t notice or didn’t want to care. “I acknowledge your sentiment, though I certainly don’t appreciate it.” He took a moment to look at Obadiah who nodded once, expression grave. Howard rubbed at his beard. “We need to act and we need to act fast. That means sending someone else to deal with the Maximoff twins, someone who is going to be able to deal with the presence of an assassin. That is, if the Faceless haven't already sent someone to take care of her, seeing as she’s a traitor to them as well.”

There was a heavy silence.  It seemed as if the very room was holding its breath.

“Steve, I’m sending you.”

Steve felt the words hit him like he’d been punched. There were various objections from around the room but he didn’t clearly hear them over the ringing in his ears. He turned to simply stare at Howard, trying to process the four words that had just been uttered.

_ “What?” _

“You’re our best swordsman by a long way,” Obadiah said gently, even as Howard just looked out over the hall, not even seeming to care about meeting Steve's eyes. “Truly, many say you are the greatest soldier in the Seven Kingdoms. You have never once shirked your duty. I know it is hard-”

“No.”

Steve’s voice rang out above Obadiah's platitudes, determined and furious. He was so angry he could barely see; he was literally shaking with the force of it all. How dare they -  _ how dare they _ decide to send him to murder two children, to say it was in the name of  _ duty _ -

“You cannot say no,” Howard said, scowling at him. “It’s an order.”

And all at once, Steve felt something within him snap, his emotions and conscience pushed past the already tortured boundaries. It was if an oak beam had just snapped, sending an entire building crashing to the ground. The burden that had been weighing him down seemed to vanish, tossed aside as he made his stand, made the decision to say  _ no.  _ In that moment, everything finally seemed clear. 

“Fuck your orders,” he said in disgust, and he walked away from Howard, down the steps and across the floor of the throne room, towards the door. He heard footsteps and then Howard was bellowing at him.

“Don’t you walk away! Get back here, do as your King commands!”

Steve reached the door and turned to look at Howard, not even bothering to hide his contempt. “You are not my King,” he said, and he unsheathed his sword. The two guards behind him immediately drew their own swords, and he distantly registered Tony’s shout of  _ ‘no!’ _ as they did.

He looked back over his shoulder at them scornfully, and they both took wavering steps backwards.  _ Cowards _ , he thought viciously, but he had no time for them. He could knock them down within seconds if they chose to try and challenge him. 

“Steve, don’t do this,” Tony called, taking an aborted step forwards. He was shaking, his hands balled into fists.

“Steve, remember your oaths!” Fury shouted.

That drew a derisive laugh from Steve. To hell with his oaths and his duties and the line that Howard had crossed in asking him to go and murder two  _ children _ . He met Howard’s eyes, brimming with defiance and threw his sword to the floor in front of him. It clashed against the flagstones and was still, the steel glinting in the sun.

He had nothing more to say, and so he turned away for the last time, pushing the doors open and walking out into the sunlight. The guards let him go.

He didn’t look back.

  
  
  


* * *

  
**Across the Narrow Sea**   
  
  


Natasha stood at the shoreline, watching the sun set over the sea. It really was beautiful here, she thought absently. She understood why Wanda wanted to stay, even if she found it hard to appreciate it herself. Beautiful things weren’t meant to mean anything to her. Nothing was meant to mean anything to her. She was supposed to do as the Faceless God bid, take jobs for money, forget everything she ever had been.

She wasn’t yet sure if she were glad that she hadn’t been able to commit to that life.

“Natasha?”

She looked around as she heard Wanda’s hesitant voice. Wanda really had no idea what she was capable of, Natasha knew that much. Maybe it would be her job to help her realise.

“Just watching the waves,” Natasha said, gesturing out in front of her. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes,” Wanda smiled but it faded quickly. “But Vision is right. A thing isn’t beautiful because it lasts.”

“He is wise, your friend,” Natasha said.

Wanda just shrugged. “He wants us to go. I can tell.”

“And what do you want?”

“I want…” Wanda began, trailing off. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “There were times when I was younger that I wanted to go back, to fight against Stark. But then I began to think, what would be the point? It wasn’t worth it.”

“Depends why you would choose to fight against him,” Natasha said.

“Tell me why I should,” Wanda said, so quietly that Natasha almost missed it under the sound of the surf. She turned to appraise Wanda for a moment. She looked different already, a determined clench to her jaw that hadn’t been there when Natasha had first arrived. It was obvious to see that she was still afraid though, so desperately afraid.

“He has lost touch with his Kingdom,” Natasha told her honestly. “He doesn’t care about it, or the people within it. His son cares more, but has no desire to rule. He has seen what it has done to his father and he detests responsibility.”

“What is happening to the people?” Wanda asked, her brows drawing together in a worried frown.

“They are suffering,” Natasha said simply.

Wanda didn’t say anything else. She came to stand beside Natasha, looking out at the ocean and clearly deep in thought. The minutes passed, the sun sinking below the horizon and turning the sky violent and gold.

And then, out of nowhere, came a scream. 

It pierced the calm of the evening like the first bolt of lightning in a storm, like the first clash of steel on steel in a swordfight. Wanda jumped in fright, grasping hold of Natasha’s arm. “Pietro,” she said distantly and distractedly, stunned. _“Pietro.”_ She made to move, running back up the beach. Natasha leapt after her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her around. “I’ll go,” she said, grabbing Wanda’s shoulders. “Wanda, stay here, I will go-”

“No,” Wanda cried, agonised, but Natasha was pushing her aside and running up towards the house, sure-footed even in the soft sand. Her heart was thudding in her chest and she took a deep breath, drawing on her training to push the adrenaline back into submission, focussing on every movement of her body, every muscle and nerve. She stole into the house through a window, her feet soundless on the floor. As she moved she heard a crash and the singing of a sword through the air-

In the courtyard. Sif, bleeding profusely from a wound on her arm. Scott, clutching his stomach and crawling across the floor, leaving behind a smear of crimson on the terracotta flagstones. A broken chair. A woman with blonde curls and red lips, a smile as empty as it was dangerous.

Another of the Faceless.

“Natasha,” the assassin called happily, a knife glinting in her hand. “I hear you are on longer one of us. So I want your face for myself.”

“Leave, Dotty,” Natasha said, her voice a calm warning. “Before I have to kill you.”

The woman frowned. The name was clearly lost on her, her old identity washed away under the vows she had taken. “You won’t be able to kill me,” she said confidently. “Your identity weighs you down. I’m going to help you, I’m going to take it and use it. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha saw Sif move. Her fingers tightened infinitesimally on her sword and before Natasha could bark out a warning, Sif lunged at the woman. Sif’s strength was staggering; the woman had to jump backwards to avoid being run through. She was quick though, much quicker than Sif. She used the wall to push herself up, leaping over around Sif, kicking the sword out of her hand and then wrapping her legs around her neck. Eyes glittering with malice, the woman threw her weight backwards so she and Sif went crashing to the ground-

Natasha moved without thinking, trained to respond without a moment’s pause. She rolled forwards and snatched up Sif’s sword, swinging it around and almost catching the woman full in the face. She missed by an inch, instead of cutting off the woman’s head she merely succeeded in taking several blond curls. No time to gloat or mock, because the woman had let go of Sif but was scrambling at Natasha, fingers going for her throat. Natasha let her push forwards, using the momentum to flip the woman all the way over onto her back, immediately twisting around and locking her thighs around the woman’s neck, trying to find purchase even as the woman reclaimed her knife, trying to thrust it towards Natasha’s neck. She grabbed her wrist and forced it away but they were at an impasse, both trained to achieve the same ends-

“No.”

Even as she fought for her life, Natasha heard Wanda’s voice, a quiet whisper that seemed a million miles away. She went to call out, to tell her to run but she found she couldn’t. Something was happening, something strange. Everything was going dark and it felt as if the very air had been sucked out of the room, like a retreating wave rushing back from the sand in a storm.

_ “No!” _

The explosion was deafening. Like an eruption of the wildfire but not green: red, so much red exploding from where Wanda had been standing. It roared to life, the walls of the house cracking and crumbling around them. Natasha had to let go of the woman to try and cover her face as the red overtook the world, like a bloody wind tearing at everything, furious and angry, screaming with pain and anger. She tried to draw in a breath but she couldn’t even do that. Over the howling of the wind, Wanda’s scream was drowned out by a new sound, a deep and terrible roaring that hurt Natasha’s ears, made the very ground beneath them tremble-

And everything stopped. Gasping, Natasha lifted her head and this time she felt fear like she hadn't felt in a very long time, crawling along her spine. Wanda was floating above them all, hands spread and eyes burning scarlet. She was wrapped in the same tendrils of red wind that had just torn apart the building and behind her-

Oh,  _ gods. _

Behind Wanda towered three terrifying monsters; scaled creatures with bat-like wings spreading out to cover the sun and sky, serpentine necks and snapping jaws full of teeth. Even as Natasha watched one of them drew in a breath, its chest expanding and then it roared, the shrieking sound reverberating through the air. They were easily twenty feet tall and all red, the same red as Wanda’s eyes. Even as Natasha watched, one of them leaned closer, a steel-clawed foot treading on the remnants of a  wall. The stone collapsed under its weight, crumbling into dust. Snorting, it leaned in, opening its jaws wide-

Natasha saw the blank look on the assassin's face a moment before she was engulfed in a ball of scarlet fire. Her scream lasted mere seconds, and when the creature pulled back, there was nothing except black scorch marks on both floor and the remnants of the wall.

Everything went still, the only sound the rumbling breaths of the beasts that Wanda had conjured.

“Wanda,” Natasha croaked, coughing and trying again.  _ “Wanda.” _

Wanda’s head snapped towards the sound of her name and in that instant, she was no longer the scared little girl that Natasha had been sent to kill, she was a being of magic and grief and anger – something unstoppable. The illusion didn’t last long; she shuddered through a breath and then slowly sank to the floor, her legs buckling underneath her as her feet touched the scorched ground.  A shaking hand came up to cover her mouth and a sob caught in her chest. Her shoulders shook and then she was crying, head bowing as the dragons stood guard behind her.

Natasha carefully pushed herself up, watching the dragons with both awe and fear. The last dragon had fallen more years ago than most people could count and now here stood three, blood red and ferocious. Though they didn’t seem to be simply that, Natasha had to concede as she watched one of them lower its long neck, nose butting gently against Wanda’s legs. It huffed out a breath strong enough to ruffle Wanda’s hair and dress and made a sound that could only be described as distressed, like a dog pining for attention from a dismissive owner.

“By the gods,” a weak voice said, and Natasha looked to see Sif sitting back with her eyes also fixed on the beasts. Scott was there too, leaning back against Sif and apparently lost for words, staring slack jawed and wide-eyed.

“Wanda,” Natasha said, climbing to her feet. She moved slowly and couldn’t help the flinch as one of the dragons reared back, snapping its leathery wings and buffeting her with the force of it.

“I’m a friend,” she said, reaching out a pacifying hand. “I’m here to help.”

_ I’m talking to a dragon,  _ she thought, almost hysterical with it.  _ Oh god, there are dragons, she has been powerful enough to create dragons from the very air. _

She slowly took a step towards Wanda and as she did something caught her eye, over in the rubble. She felt her heart twist and clench painfully in her chest, her whole body drawing tight with grief. Visible in the doorway lay Pietro. He was sprawled on his front, his eyes open and unseeing, his neck bent at a strange angle. He looked so terribly still and so terribly young.

“Oh,” Natasha said softly, helplessly. She walked over to him without thinking, crouching down and gently closing his eyelids with her fingertips. Feeling emotional in a way she hadn’t in a very long time, she made her way back to Wanda’s side, hyperaware of every move she made under the lidless silver eyes of the dragons.

“Wanda,” she said again but then simply acted on instinct, reaching out to take Wanda’s hand. For a moment she feared she had done wrong or that nothing would help; Wanda just continued to sob and the dragons continued to shift restlessly in the background. Natasha was ready to call for aid from Sif and Scott but then she felt movement; Wanda’s fingers twitched and then they slowly closed around Natasha’s, holding on with what little strength Wanda had left.


End file.
